


And The Band Played On

by bobee



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brat Peter Parker, Edwardian Period, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Happy Hogan is a Good Bro, Historical AU, Hurt/Comfort, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, RMS Titanic, Sad Peter Parker, Sick Peter Parker, Titanic AU, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, also sandwich comes later on but he's very there!!, and peter is the sad orphan that fights all the titanic crew, basically watched titanic and got huge inspiration, beck and obadiah are dumbasses, he's a good kid just has a lot of hurt, these tags are all over the place oh god, tony's bascially thomas edison in this ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobee/pseuds/bobee
Summary: This is a story about an inventor.It's a story about a boy.It's a story about an unsinkable shipan iceberga sapphirea fathers fluteand it's a story about love.(or, the titanic's most famous passenger's world is changed in ways he could never have imagined, all in the hands of a boy he would grow to call his own)
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Sandwich the Dog (Marvel), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 67
Kudos: 142





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> good evening and welcome to my fic that hit me like a ton of bricks and kept me up days at a time running off of coffee and red bull and 3 days of worn in contact lenses :D
> 
> here are some notes 4 u to explain more about this disaster i've written that i'm still hoping you'll like for some reason-
> 
> 1\. basically i watched the titanic and was Heavily inspired to write like half of this fic in like four days, but anyways u get the gist - inspired by a Good™ movie with some Good™ irondad content yessir
> 
> 2\. the dialogue and shittt is all set back during the edwardian period, i tried to interpret tony's personality as much as i could through the mannerisms and language of back then, same with peter (if i slipped up and some things are inaccurate, forgive me pls)
> 
> 3\. i do have peter a little out of character for the sake of the plot, so if you're reading and you're like ?????? peter wouldn't say that????? pls bare with me he'll bloom into the little flower angel we know him as he's just been thru some tuff times and doesn't know how 2 cope with anger. thank u.
> 
> 4\. and look lads i don't have a shiting clue about science and i had to research to FUCK about everything and anything in 1912 anyways let alone this technology stuff so again if ur reading like ????? same. we r in the same boat.
> 
> n' last but not least, enjoy the story :)

_April 10th, 1912_

_Southampton._

“You will write to me the moment you set foot in America, won’t you?” Says Pepper.

She looks tired. Her hair is pulled back tightly, tugging at her scalp. Her lips are pursed and there are tears shining in her eyes.

She looks beautiful.

“The second my two feet hit the ground,” Tony promises, with a grin.

“And what about telegrams? You’ll send one of those, too?” 

Tony rolls his eyes good-naturedly at her fretting persistence. “I don’t dream of not,” he assures her, but there’s a playfulness behind his words. “You’ll get one sooner than I’ll sit down in my cabin.”

“I better,” Pepper scolds, lightly, before kissing his mouth.

It’s a busy day for Southampton. Flocks of people are scurrying about the docks, families, children, the senior citizens. Sailors are scattered all around amidst the bustling crowds, checking tickets for those about to board the _Titanic._

Along the quayside, several gangways are attached to cut-out doors on the side of the ship, waiting for passengers to climb on board.

Colonel James ‘Rhodey’ Rhodes, Tony’s best friend and business partner, stretches out his hand. “Shake it, old pal,” he says, smiling. “We’ll see you soon.”

“You won’t even know I’m gone,” Tony says, dismissing the handshake in turn for a hug. “Don’t do anything stupid without me.”

“Nonsense,” Rhodey laughs, patting him on the back. “I’ll wait ‘til you get back home.”

“That sounds more like it.”

There’s a sharp whistle, loud in the air, signalling those boarding to either get a move on, or they’ll be left behind. Pepper hands Tony his ticket with the corners of her mouth quirked up into a pierced smile. 

“You better go,” she tells him, adjusting his tie so it sits right in the middle. 

“What will I do without you?” Tony sighs, stuffing the ticket into his pocket. 

“Die, probably.”

“I think that’s a little far-fetched.”

“I think it’s quite accurate.”

“I think you need to re-check who you’re speaking to.”

She laughs. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“Yes, Miss Potts. Thank you.”

And with that, he bids them both a farewell, waving joyously before he turns to make his way up the gangway. Edwin Jarvis, his personal valet or otherwise known as the butler of the Stark family, sees his leave with a fond smile.

“I’ve checked your luggage through the main terminal, sir,” he says, amidst the noise of the crowds around them. “You’ll be assisted, I presume, with your trunks to the suite.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Tony says, gripping a smaller leather case he’d chosen to keep in hand, as he reaches for the railings to the wooden platform. “I’ll be lost without you.”

“As will I, sir,” says Jarvis, with the hint of a grin. “Go on, get on. We’ll see you soon.”

“Soon!” Tony repeats, eyes twinkling. “Don’t have too much fun without me!”

“We’ll try, sir!”

It’s then that Tony turns to the ticket-checkers at the bottom of the First-Class gangway, where women are dressed in the finests of gowns, finest of hats, trimmed and pearled and laced down to the most precise of stitches.

The men are dressed similarly to him, three-piece suits and matching waistcoats, hats of their own, spats on their feet and hands leather-gloved. The embodiment of wealth.

“Mr. Stark,” the sailor greets upon his arrival, almost bowing his head. The instant respect isn’t out of the ordinary, nor is the hasty fumbling the sailor succumbs to whilst searching through the few papers that are Tony’s ticket. 

“It’s not every day the world's most famous inventor boards your ship,” the sailor admits, bashfully, neck reddening slightly. Tony drums his fingers across his folded arms, waiting for the all-clear. “Well, here I am.”

“Here you are indeed,” the sailor murmurs, scanning through the papers once more, before handing them back to him. “There you go. Have a safe trip, Mr. Stark.”

“Thank you,” Tony replies, sniffing before turning to walk up the platform up to the gigantic expanse of steel.

Once he’s made it to the door cut into the side of the ship, there’s a white uniformed man directing the passengers on where to go. Much like the sailor back at the dock, he is pleasantly surprised at the sight of him. 

“Tony Stark,” he says, unable to bite back a grin. “I wasn’t informed you would be travelling with us.”

“Yeah, well, got places to be,” Tony shrugs, ever so nonchalant. “Directions to First-Class check-in?”

“Right this way, sir,” the man gestures towards an opulent corridor, finely carved with satinwood wall panelling and serene-white tiled flooring. 

With a thanks, Tony makes his leave, shoving his ticket back in his pocket. It doesn’t take him long to reach the reception area, on the _B-deck_ , he reads. The entrance room is large and exquisite, at the foot of the Grand Staircase, defined with all marble and granite, high grade porcelain and ceramics and hand polished natural brass. It’s pretty and proper.

He makes his way to the Purser’s office, where there’s a tall, waxed and wide desk, accompanied by a woman dressed in crisp uniform. The clerk she must be, then. She glances up at him as he arrives, after waiting his turn in line. She, contrary to everyone else, doesn’t seem even merely surprised to see him.

“Name?”

“Tony Stark, ma’am.”

She frowns at him when he says that.

“Mr. Spencer here will show you to your cabin,” she informs him, briskly, as a man who Tony supposes to be Spencer who is tall and lean with sharp-cut facial hair and a glint in his teeth, nods in greeting. 

The clerk glances around, frowning.

“Where’s Peter?” 

Mr. Spencer parrots her motion, searching around him. “He was here just a moment ago.”

Desk-lady tuts at that comment, rising from her seat. “Excuse me for a minute, will you?” She says to Tony, not bothering to wait for a reply before she disappears behind two doors, muttering something about ‘stupid bellboys, the lot of them’ as she went.

“Very sorry for the delay,” Mr. Spencer says sheepishly, rolling a luggage trolley towards him. Tony sees his ten other trunks are already on it. “We had ah—a boy prepared to help with your luggage. He’s disappeared, someplace.”

“Kids these days,” Tony drawls, adjusting his tie where Pepper last touched it. “Can’t keep a hold of ‘em.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Spencer confirms, before sticking out a hand. “Owen Spencer. I admire your work.”

Tony, taken aback slightly by the change of demeanor, returns the shake, gripping his hand firmly. “Pleasures all mine.”

Desk-lady returns not a second after that, a boy in tow. “I couldn’t find him,” she rasps, very clearly irritated. “So you’ll have Johnny instead. I hope that’s not too much trouble.”

If her face isn’t evident enough to Tony that she couldn’t care less what he thinks, he’s not sure what else is. “It’s no trouble at all, miss.” He hands his leather case to the scrawny, poorly-fed looking boy. “Good luck on the goose chase.”

He follows Spencer and the silent bellboy, Johnny, through swinging red doors that lead through to another wide passageway, consisting of the First-Class suites and staterooms. 

The corridors have white-painted _'Venesta’_ plywood panels, pilasters and archways over all the stateroom entrances. There are no handrails, no carpet runners, and louver panels muffle the sounds from outside the suites.

Well, he is Tony Stark, after all. He will have the best, of the best.

He follows them until they reach cabin B-56, one of the four parlour suites, in which they open the door and wait for him to enter first. 

The suite is brilliant, marvelous, all kinds of fantastic. It’s furnished with a double bed, a dressing table, horsehair sofas in the private living room, a walk-in wardrobe, and a marble-topped washstand with a basin. There’s a private lavatory and bathroom, decorated with mirrors and paintings and the finest of China.

In the second bedroom, there is another double bed accompanied by a single cot, writing desk, a faux fireplace and more plush sofas. There is an additional bunk suspended over the cot that can be folded against the wall. Tony likes that.

Above the main bed, also, is an electrical outlet with a call button that can summon a steward, along with a reading lamp and a wire-mesh basket for storing.

He claps his hands. “Wonderful. I’ll just get myself settled, so.”

“If you require a tour of the deck,” Spencer clears his throat. “You can call one of us and we will assist you around the First-Class accommodation facilities.”

Uselessly, Johnny nods in agreement. He’s placed Tony’s case on the bed, brushed it down and all. He looks as if any moment he’s going to shit himself, and Tony takes mercy on him, because, really, it can’t be much fun being _that_ terrified.

He reaches into his suit jacket, before handing him a pile of pennies, twelve shillings and sixpence. “Get some grub,” he says, before turning to Spencer to hand him the same. “Scoot, the pair of you. I’d like some time to get comfortable, if you will.”

Johnny thanks him in a fumbled, stammered state, rushedly hauling the trolley out of the room without another word. Tony waits for Spencer to do the same thing. 

“Captain Smith will be waiting to greet you personally on the upper deck,” he tells him, before thanking him for the tip and exiting the suite.

Tony exhales. _Finally, peace at last._

* * *

When he reaches the upper deck twenty minutes later, he is greeted by what one would describe as first-hand entertainment. 

With the argument out of context, Tony has no idea what’s going on, but as he tunes in to listen to one of two crewmen chastise a raw-boned, hollow-cheeked boy, he gets an idea.

“You were _what_? _Busy_? Doing what exactly, dare I ask? Oh, forget it—for fucks sakes, who let this halfwit _foundling_ on board?”

“Very funny,” pipes up a much younger voice. _American_ , Tony muses. “I told you I was busy. It’s just a stupid job—I had better things to do other than _carry_ someones _luggage_.”

He says this with such spitfire and filth on his tongue, as if he’s too grand, too proper, to do such a task. Tony finds that very amusing, taking in his ragged, moth-eaten clothes. Even from the back, the boy looks grimy, grubby, tarnished with dirt. On the small side too, when he peers closer.

“Who are you, Henry the fucking eighth? You’re on this ship as an employee, and you _do as we say._ You’re no better than scum on the streets, understand?” One of the crewmen grabs the kid by the collar of his wrinkled, tatty shirt, so tightly he lifts him a few inches off the ground. “You hear me, boy?”

And, in fairness, the kid doesn’t let up, trashing manically in his grip. “Get offa’ me, you pig!”

“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?”

Immediately, the kid is released, rubbing at the back of his neck. The two men stand up straighter, smoothing their expressions at who they’re addressing. 

The kid's body tenses up, shoulders hunched and chin tucked to his chest. Tony watches with fascination as Captain Smith stops in front of the three of them, another pair of officials by his side. 

“Just a little complication with one of our younger workers, sir,” the crewman that had shaken the kid says, and even Tony can see him side-eyeing him, warning him to keep his mouth shut. “A few miscommunication mishaps, is all. And a tap for the cheek.”

He does so as he says it, flicking the boys ear as if to prove his statement.

The Captain processes this mutely, thinking. “And those issues are resolved, I believe? As to avoid causing any disturbance on my ship?”

“That’s right, Captain,” crewman number one confirms, visibly embarrassed, squaring his shoulders with a curt nod. “He won’t be any more trouble.”

“I’d certainly hope not,” the Captain says, turning his attention onto the kid. He leans down, narrowing his eyes. “I’ll be keeping an eye on this one, so. I didn’t quite catch your name.”

The kid mumbles something so inaudible the men beside him can’t seem to hear.

“What was that?”

The kid mumbles again, all bravado and cockiness from before vanished. 

“Speak up, boy!”

“—Captain Smith! Lord, what a delight!”

They all turn to Tony then, who’s announced himself with his natural confident aura, strolling over casually to stand beside the crewmen. The kid glances up at him, barely, and Tony doesn’t even get a good look at his face before he ducks it again.

He grits his teeth, willing him to stay silent.

_I’m saving your ass here, kid. Don’t say a damn word._

“Well, if it isn’t the Tony Stark himself,” the Captain greets warmly, focus lost from the boy below him. He meets Tony’s outstretched hand, shaking it with both his own. “What a pleasure to have you on my ship!”

“Yeah, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Tony says, a little grimly, not shocked in the least when all of the men laugh as if he’d told them the greatest joke of all time. He hadn’t even said anything funny.

“Well, I wish you the best of travels whilst you board with us,” the Captain tells him, and the other men nod as if in agreement. “The utmost of comfort with that. Welcome aboard to the _Titanic_.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to be here,” Tony replies, surprised at the serenity in his voice. 

“Glad to have you,” the Captain smiles, before he and the officials beside him return the way they came, leaving him alone with crewman piss-pot number one and crewman piss-pot number two, and a foul-mouthed too-big-for-his-boots kid that doesn’t like a little scolding. 

Excellent.

“If that’s all,” he says, turning to walk over to one of the benches on the deck. It smells like sea-air and salt, all blue skies and sunshine as he pulls out a notebook from a pocket on the inside of his jacket.

When he looks up again, the crewmen are gone, but the boy is still there, having abandoned his former place beside another bench to lean over the railings within reach of Tony, watching the distant shoreline.

"Five minutes on board and already causing trouble, huh, kid?”

The boy turns sharply, fingers squeezing the rail as he tilts forwards, glaring. “It’s none of your business.”

Tony keeps his posture relaxed. “I think it is. Peter, is it?”

The kid glares even harder, eyebrows furrowing under dirt-flecked, pale skin. His face is young and elfish, with ears that stick out just a little and dark, dark eyes. “No.”

“Liar.”

He’s teasing, but the kid turns away in a huff, leaning his chin on his forearms that rest on the railings. “What’s it to you, anyways?” He asks, after a while.

Tony shrugs, struggling to hold back a smirk for the first time since boarding the ship. “You were my bellboy. You disappeared right before you were supposed to carry my things to my room. I disapprove.”

The kid gapes at him. “Wha—too bad! I’m not your stupid servant! Just because you can make cool things doesn’t mean you’re entitled to everyone else slaving away after you. If you want your things carried to your room, do it yourself!”

Well, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Feel better?”

“Fuck off.”

“My my, that’s not nice language coming from a young boy,” Tony keeps teasing, although he notices that the kid really is small, all bony-shouldered and knobby-kneed. “You oughta wash that mouth out with soap.”

“What are you, my Pa?” The kid scoffs, turning away again. Everything about his body language is enclosed, guarded, riled up. Tony knows he’s struck a nerve, thinking of the word one of the crewmen had used earlier: _foundling._

“It’s not nice to swear,” he says, raising an arm to rest it on the back of the bench. He adjusts his body to face the kid. Studies him closely. “You’re not that young, are you?”

He’s lying through his teeth if he thinks that’s true. Kid looks about twelve. But, he wants a good reaction, and there’s nothing better for an ego boost than telling a short kid that he’s not so short.

“Fifteen. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

Now that _is_ a surprise. “ _Fifteen?_ As in teenager? Really?”

The kid pouts, actually pouts, stuffing his face into his crooked arms again. “You just said I didn’t look young.” His voice is muffled.

“Those weren’t my words.”

“More or less.”

Tony doesn’t realise he’s grinning, broad and wide. “Fine, I’ll take back my shocked response. Go ahead, tell me your age. I’ll react differently this time, I promise.”

The kid doesn’t look convinced, but meets his gaze. “. . . I’m fifteen.”

This time, Tony channels his expression, keeping it neutral. “I thought you were in your twenties, at least,” he says, finally, searching for satisfaction on the kid’s face. “I mean, you’ve practically got facial hair on you, and don’t get me started on the receding hairline. That’s a given with old age.”

The kid laughs. He actually laughs.

 _Bingo_ , Tony thinks, smirking. _I win_.

“I didn’t think you had the ability to smile,” he says, before he can think twice about it. He almost regrets it, thinking he’ll get a negative recoil to that one, but the kid seems looser now, more at ease.

“And I didn’t think you had the ability to talk to someone lesser than you, and yet here we are,” he quips, and Tony is totally caught off guard.

Although he can appreciate a good wit, this one has him curious. “In all seriousness, what does that even mean?”

“What, you don’t think it’s true?”

“Well, no, I don’t actually.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “You’re Tony Stark. You invent things for fun. You get paid more than my entire life’s savings in a week. You act like you’re better than everybody else because — well, you sort of are, and you don’t pay attention to people like me. Filth, like me.” He adds, scowling at his own degradation.

And Tony is appalled, because the kid can’t be anymore _wrong_.

“Is that what you really think of me?” He asks, softly. “Or are you just angry?”

“What?” The kid finally lets go of the railings, hopping down to stand a foot away from the bench. “Angry? I’m just saying the truth.”

“What makes you say that?” Tony keeps pushing. He wants to know.

The kid shrugs, having not enough audacity to look a little shameful. “People like you are always like that.” His cheeks redden. 

“People like me.”

“Yeah, people like you. Rich, smart, know-it-all's, successful. You always look down on people like me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you because I’m successful,” Tony says, sincerely, before smirking again just as the kid's eyes land on his. “I _know_ I’m better than you because I’m successful.”

The boy glares at him, before crossing his arms and turning on his heel to march off somewhere in a huff — and nope, that isn’t good in Tony’s books.

“Kid, wait, c’mon, I was kidding—c’mon, _come back_ —”

He follows him all through the deck, not letting the tufty brown mop of hair out of his sight for a second, even as he disappears amidst the other passengers wanting a bit of air. He continues calling after him. “Kid, stop—look, I’m _sorry—_ wait up—”

He latches onto a skinny arm, halting him in an action that tugs the kid backwards, and he turns around with such anger in his eyes, Tony’s genuinely flabbergasted.

“What? Go away. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

He sighs. “Kid, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I was joking. Honest. Just a joke.”

 _A joke I thought you could take,_ he thinks, but decides not to add that when he sees how upset he is.

“It wasn’t funny,” the kid mutters, ripping his arm away. He makes no move to escape, though, so Tony takes that as a good sign. “I could be just as good as you. Better, even. I probably already am. But just because life wasn’t nice to me the way it was to you, I don’t get those opportunities. I could invent stuff that could change the world—and yet I’m stuck here, working for a load of dick-wads and building shit from scraps—”

“Wait—hang on—” It’s Tony’s turn to gawk at him. “You like inventing?”

The kid looks away, crossing his arms. “I love inventing.”

“What kinds of things?” Tony asks, because he’s getting the feeling he isn’t talking about drumming on pots and pans. 

“Normal things,” the kid shrugs, but Tony can see the pride behind his eyes. “You know, electric motors, ignition systems, basic engineering, stuff like that.”

“Sounds like to me, you’re the know-it-all,” Tony smiles, and he hopes it comes across as genuine as he feels because he is seriously impressed. “And, what, _you_ build things for fun?”

“All the time,” the kid chirps, brightening slightly. “I used to steal stuff from the factory at home. Only place I could get the bits I needed, but—I don’t know. I’m good at what I do. I know I am. But . . . I guess there’s just a lot I don’t know yet. I lot I haven’t learned.”

He flops down onto a bench, resting his elbows on his knees. “And I’ll never _get_ to learn. That’s the difference between you and me.”

Tony finds himself kneeling in front of him, taking off his top-hat. “How many days we got on this ship, kid?”

“A week.”

“That’s right,” he hums. “And I’m not too sure about you, but I’ve got plenty of time.”

He’s not entirely sure what he’s propositioning here, without enough time to plan out his thought process, but his brain-to-mouth filter has been switched off and he doesn’t regret it one bit when he sees those big brown eyes shining at him.

“I will teach you,” he says, and the kid's face drops in astonishment. “I will teach you, if you do everything I say and stay out of trouble. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” the kid replies, breathlessly, staring at him with complete and utter awe. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Good. We begin tomorrow,” Tony straightens up before, just for kicks— and because he’s done it to about three different people today—stretching out his hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you, kid.”

Said kid shakes it eagerly. “As always, Mr. Stark.”

As Tony leaves the deck, descending to his cabin, a voice calls him back. He turns to the kid, who’s grinning boyishly at him. 

“By the way, it’s Peter!” He says, eyes crinkling. “Peter Parker!”

“I know!” Calls Tony, winking.

 _Well, Peter Parker,_ he thinks, as he retreats to his suite. 

_Seems like you and me are going to have a lot of fun._


	2. TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just the usual shenanigans on a day aboard the titanic.

The first night on a ship is always weird.

That’s what Tony tells himself as he sits up with a gasp, heart thumping disgracefully fast against his chest, an ugly bundle of nerves sharp in his stomach, knotted and twisted and painfully tight.

It takes a hand clutched to his chest, several deep breaths and the grounding noise of the ship's engine to slow his racing heart. And even after that, he’s still unsettled.

 _Always the first night,_ he continues to tell himself, even as he swings his legs out of bed, sliding his feet into a warm pair of slippers. Having had the first three buttons of his night shirt undone, he fastens the red and white striped garment, nightcap trailing down his neck. 

Without so much as a second thought, he lights the oil lamp on his dresser, opens the doors of his suite, and steps outside into the corridor.

The ceiling lights keep the corridor lit in a low, orange glow. It feels vacant and phantomatic almost, as he wanders down the hallway, not quite sure of the desired destination he has in mind.

Should he return to the upper decks in repent of himself in his lack of sleep? Or should he stroll aimlessly across the B-deck, exploring the saloons and leisure's First-Class has to offer?

Indecisive, he continues pacing up and down the corridor, the labyrinth design making it difficult to tell where his room even is. It’s a God forsaken maze, for Christ’s sake.

Finally, he stops in front of the linen closet, where he supposes the bedroom stewards keep the towels and sheets and whatnot for the cabins. He has no intentions of going in, until he hears a masculine voice echo from around the corner, followed by a familiar click-clack of patent shoes.

He doesn’t hesitate before hastily stepping inside, immediately engulfed in soft cotton and a soothing warmth from the fresh, cream towels. It’s pitch dark, however, and he fumbles around for a moment before his fingers wrap around a string. 

Pulling it down, the storeroom is filled with stunning luminosity, and he squeezes his eyes shut, blinking in adjustment to the sudden brightness.

And then a small, groggy, irritated voice groans above him. “Wh’t the hell? Who turn’d the lights on?”

Tony jumps involuntarily at the unexpected, disembodied voice. He looks around him, alarmed. “Who said that?”

“I did,” the voice says again, clearer this time. American. Familiar. Tony flicks his eyes upwards only to see none other than Peter Parker, curled up on the top shelf of the closet. He receives a dark glare from him. “I was sleeping.”

“Wh—in here?” Tony says, too aghast to come up with a witty remark. “Why on Earth are you sleeping in the laundry room?”

“It’s not a laundry room,” Peter says, peeking over the shelf. “It’s a linen closet. Can’t you read?”

“Ha ha,” Tony replies, deadpan. “Good one, kid. Tell me again, why the heck are you in here?”

Peter shrugs. “It’s cosy.”

“Don’t you have somewhere proper to sleep? With like, I don’t know, a bed?”

“I’m supposed to sleep in the glory holes,” Peter says, rubbing his eyes drowsily. “But they’re loud and mean and make me sleep on the floor.” He yawns. “What’re _you_ doing here, Mr. Stark?”

Tony ignores his question, intrigued. “Glory holes?”

“Crew dormitory.”

“Well then why do you have to sleep on the floor?”

“Because I’m the smallest. There aren't enough bunks for all of us.”

Tony frowns at that. “So you came here instead?”

“You betcha.”

Peter doesn’t make any attempt at climbing down, but he does lean over a bit more. The bulb hanging from the ceiling casts a light across his face that illuminates the dark circles under his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you up? It’s not morning time, is it?”

“No,” Tony tells him, making a split decision to sit himself on the floor. He cranes his neck to look back up at Peter. “I was awake. Got bored, went wandering, found you.”

“You couldn’t sleep,” Peter realises, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. “Homesick already?”

There’s the faintest trace of a grin on his lips, so Tony entertains him. “Bingo, kid. I’m a lost soul. Devastated. At my wits-end. I’m missing all zero of my children and all their dogs too.”

Peter chuckles, lightly, laying back down with his head pillowed in the crook of his arm as he stares at Tony. “You don’t have children?”

“Of course not. What, you’re my biggest fan and you don’t know that? Shameful. I’m a lone wolf, kid.”

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes. “I never said I was your biggest fan. I like what you do, what you create. I’m not invested in your . . . personal life.”

“Touché,” says Tony. “What about you, then? You got kids?”

Peter laughs out loud then, stifling it as soon as Tony hushes him. “ _No_ , I am the kid, Mr. Stark!”

“My bad, my bad, I apologise,” Tony says, without a hint of apology at all. He doesn’t press down further, and with an inkling of Peter’s home life, he keeps his trap shut. If the kid wants to tell him, he will.

“Won’t your . . . crew pals be looking for you?” He asks after a while. Peter had his eyes fluttered shut, as if he’d been slipping back to sleep with his face smushed into his arm. 

Blearily, he blinks once, twice, before closing his eyes again. “No,” he mumbles. “By the time they find me, there’s too much to do for anyone to stay mad for long.”

“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter drifts further away, in the brink of sleep. “I will.”

Tony waits until the kid’s breaths even out fully, his free arm slipping and dangling down from the shelf, right beside his own face. 

Reaching out, hesitant, his forefinger circles the palm of Peter’s hand. They are small and pinched. Bony, just like the rest of him. 

He lets go before he can think too hard about it, and with a final glance to ensure the kid is asleep, he pulls the string down, and the light disappears with him as he exits the closet.

* * *

The day drawls on.

Tony is especially tired, after his late-night adventures. He eats breakfast in the dining saloon, where it’s big and grand and elegant and features elaborately carved oak buffet stations, red and blue linoleum tiles and chairs upholstered in dark green leather.

He eats like a king. Baked apples, poached eggs, soda and sultana scones, stewed prunes and orange juice to wash it all down. The variety of meal choices is, even to him, extraordinary, and he makes a great deal of taking his time on what to choose from with such a wide range of options.

He thinks of Peter, and wonders only for a moment about what he might’ve had to eat for breakfast. Bread and butter, probably. Fresh fruit if he’s lucky.

_People like you always look down on people like me._

And after that thought Tony finishes up, wiping down his mouth with a handkerchief before sauntering out of the saloon, intending to tour across much more of the ship.

He visits the gymnasium, the Turkish baths, the swimming pool, the squash court and the barber shop. All of which he deems very little interest in, only there to admire the craftsmanship of their interior before he continues scouting the ship.

At some point, he finds himself searching the upper deck again, but it’s no use — Peter is nowhere to be seen.

He jots down things that draw his eye in his notebook, spending much of his time in the open sea air, listening to the hazy gossip around him. He makes no effort in conversing with passengers, though he speaks when he’s spoken to. He takes notes of things to remind himself to tell Pepper, and retreats back to the First-Class lounge.

The lounge is large itself, modelled in the _Louis XV_ style after the _Palace of Versailles_ _._ There, other men and women are socialising over cups of tea and coffee, mindless chit-chat and card games.

He’ll bring Peter here, he decides. 

And yet, he’s not seen any signs of the boy at all so far, which is strange considering their tutoring plan discussed just the day before.

 _Peter is a worker_ , Tony reminds himself, sternly. _He’ll be busy._

And so and so, the day drags, in a way that Tony is unfamiliar with. He’s not used to waiting to see someone. To _want_ to see someone. Other than Pepper and Rhodey, who he never had to wait much for anyways, and then Happy Hogan, his former butler who had sailed to America not too long ago in aid of his sick mother. Tony will see him once he’s reached New York.

That’s something to look forward to, at least.

He spends the day alone. Which, to be fair, he expected initially when he bought his ticket, but he’d be lying now if he said he wasn’t just a little disappointed at the absence of a scrawny fifteen-year-old kid with a quick lip.

Thing is, Tony likes to teach. He likes to educate, and he likes granting others access to learn. Knowledge is important. Intelligence is far beyond the front surface, it’s rooted deep inside every person and he likes to be the one to scruff it out.

And in his time there’s only been several of those that have come even slightly close to rivalling his own genius, but he has a gut-feeling that this Parker kid has striking potential. The experience isn’t there yet. But the talent is. 

He knows it.

He does nonsense for the rest of the day. Buys a pack of cards, sits at the bar, smokes one or two in the smoking room where women aren’t allowed, and tries to restlessly enjoy his time aboard the _Titanic_.

It’s dinner when he sees Peter again.

Tonight, he’s chosen to dine in the _Á la Carte Restaurant_ , all grey tables and red roses and white daisies and carpeting with the lingering smell of shoe shine and polish.

A stringed orchestra plays classical music for the families dining, and Tony is glued to his menu when he has a twingy urge to glance up, and there he is.

Peter is running through the halls outside the restaurant, and through the glistening glass Tony can see the soot on his face, his arms blackened with coal and ash. 

His undershirt is ratty and dark-stained, the shorts are in a similar condition—and much too large on him. The suspenders are the only thing Tony reckons that are keeping them up.

The question is, what is he doing running around the First-Class area?

Before he can stop himself, cursing at his inability to just let the kid take whatever punishment he’s got, Tony abandons his seat at the table and makes his way outside the restaurant, into the hallway where he sees Peter’s bare feet on the tiled floor.

“Peter,” he hisses, and the kid jolts, spinning around to face him with wide eyes and matted hair. 

“Oh, thank God Mr. Stark, I’m in _big_ trouble now—”

“We’re all best off throwing the bloody tinker overboard! I’m serious, William, he causes nothing but mayhem, and it’s only been two days!”

“I’m aware, Henry, but we can’t do that, unfortunately.”

Tony narrows his eyes at the two men who’ve just rounded the corner, seemingly chasing after Peter. They don’t look like trimmers, greasers, boilermakers, or any staff working with the engineering of the ship. 

In fact, they’re wearing pristine uniform, service dress. They’re identical, clothed in visor caps, buttoned jackets with gold trimmed shoulder puffs, black woolen trousers, crisp white shirts and neckties. Tony recognises them as the officials that had been with the captain earlier. 

_How typical_ , he thinks, giving Peter a not-so-subtle glare.

“Throw me overboard then!” Said kid snarls back, and he looks so out of place, so wrong, standing beneath a beautiful chandelier with dirt under his fingernails. “See if I care!”

“I’d watch that lip if I were you!” The first official—Henry, Tony gathers, steps forward. “Keep running that mouth and we’ll see where you’ll be staying for the rest of the journey, you _varmint_.”

“We have strict orders from the captain to keep a watchful eye on you, you little minx,” the second one says. “We take these matters into our own hands, and if you’re causing ruckus amongst this ship, actions will be taken to prevent it!”

“I don’t care!” Peter fires back, ruthless. “This is bullshit! You don’t even know why I was running from them!”

“And I needn’t know more! Look at the state of you!” William, it seems, near damn spits at him. “Now you get that puss off your face and get back down to the boiler rooms, immediately, or so mark my words I’ll—”

Breathing heavily from his outburst, Peter smirks. “Escort me, won’t you?”

Henry waves an arm at him, as if swatting away a fly. “Just—get out of here, you filthy _rat_.”

And after sticking his tongue out, Peter scampers, leaving Tony pondering and a little befuddled. He turns his attention onto the officials, raising a brow. “Well, wasn’t that interesting?”

“He’s a pest,” says Henry, still evidently furious. “A menace, that one. I’ll never know the day they decided it was a good idea for him to work on this ship. Nothing but a no-good troublemaker. He won’t bother you, or anyone else again, we’ll make sure of it.”

“Captain's orders,” William adds, as if that will make any difference to Peter’s disobedience.

“I’m not worried,” Tony sniffs, already itching to get away from these men to hunt down the kid himself. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Clearly embarrassed that Tony had witnessed the argument, William swallows awkwardly, looking as though he’s battling himself to find the words. 

“I hope this . . . nuisance doesn’t interfere with your impression of the _Titanic_ ,” he says, and Tony finally realises what this is really about. “I’m sure other pleasantries can overlook this small mishap, don’t you agree?”

“To a T,” Tony replies, wryly. 

“Excellent. Well, we best be on our way.” William scans their surroundings, landing on the menu on the stand outside the restaurant. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The two officials nod at him before turning and walking away. Tony waits until they’ve disappeared around the corner again before he scurries after Peter, knowing full well even at this stage, so early on in knowing him that he has zero intentions of going back down to the boiler rooms.

He calls for him in a low hiss, trying with every ounce of his might to mask the wrath he’s feeling, attempting to sound somewhat casual instead, to coax him out of wherever it is he’s hiding.

He finds him sitting on an armchair outside the lounge, knees pulled to his chest. And, Lord, he is filthy.

“Kid, what did I tell you?”

Peter doesn’t reply, and when Tony steps closer, he sees his thin shoulders trembling. Then he hears a sniffle, and he sighs. This isn’t good.

Carefully, he seats himself on the red armchair next to Peters. “What’s the matter?”

Stupid question, but he has to ask.

Peter’s head pops up, and his face is just pure muck. He wipes an arm across his nose and Tony has to physically hold back a grimace. “Take a guess, dummy.”

“I don’t know you to be upset after taking a telling-off.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like it. They’re so _mean_.”

 _Maybe they’d be nicer if you behaved yourself_ , Tony thinks, but refrains from saying _that_ one.

“They are,” he agrees, instead, lifting a hand to cautiously place it on Peters back. When he doesn’t get a flinch, or a shiver, or any indication the gesture is unwanted, he slowly strokes it up and down his spine. 

Peter fists his hands into his eyes, retracting a small squelching noise as he rubs them roughly. “They’re even meaner than you.”

Tony has to laugh at that one. “Kid, seriously, I don’t know where you’re getting this horrible impression of me from. You must be thinking of someone else.”

Peter cracks a smile at that, and Tony smiles warmly back at him.

“Would you like to get washed up?”

The kid barks out a humourless laugh, as if the idea is foreign to him, or simply just not—or never had been—on the table. “What, like a bath? Fat chance of that. I’ll just wipe my face with a cloth. Or throw myself off this ship. One or the other.”

“Don’t say that,” Tony chides, gently. “Come on, I have a private bathroom in my suite. You can bathe all that soot off you, and I’ll get those clothes washed.”

It seems as if the thought of a bath to Peter is so surreal that he looks skeptical for a moment, disbelieving. He stares right into Tony's eyes, searching for lies. “You’re kidding?”

“Dead serious, kid.” 

Peter blinks at him for another second of hesitance, before he finally decides on trusting him. 

“Okay, Mr. Stark,” he says, jumping up from the seat and wiping himself down, cheered up immensely already. “Lead the way.”

* * *

If Peter’s reaction is anything to go by on judging the parlour, Tony would think it’s the grandest suite of all time.

In fact, Peter is so enthralled by the elegance and magnificence of the room he doesn’t dare to step inside, at first. He admires from afar, lingering in the doorway with his mouth hanging open as he marvels the sights before him. 

And, well, Tony finds his reaction rather sweet, if not a little brazen.

He leaves him standing there, granting him enough space to decide when to walk in, in his own time whenever he’s ready.

“There’s a lot more to what meets the eye,” he says after a while, when he comes to the conclusion that Peter won’t come in until he’s told to. 

When he finally does, taking tentative, cautious steps, he doesn’t bother holding back his crude response to all of Tony’s things, reaching out to touch before pulling his soiled hands back, away from anything valuable or expensive—so, pretty much everything.

Tony watches him with a sharp eye, closely observing every movement, every hitch of breath, every careful tread. He gets a distinct feeling that the kid has never seen anything like this before.

“Why do you have two bedrooms when you’re travelling alone?” Peter asks, once he’s regained his composure. It’s a good question, so Tony finds himself struggling to answer, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he can't think of a single response. 

Why _did_ he decide to journey in one of the parlour suites? A standard First-Class bedroom would’ve suited him just fine.

“You must have a lot of money to throw around if you’re saying in a suite this big,” Peter adds, tactlessly. 

Tony, although not offended in the slightest, has half a mind to tell him off for the bad manners. It doesn’t bother him in the least—but one day the kid is going to run into someone who it does, and with a mouth like his, it won’t end well.

“You should think before you say things,” Tony tells him, albeit a little hypocritically.

Peter snorts at him. “You’re one to talk.” Then, a meek afterthought, “did I offend you?”

Tony shakes his head. “It’d take a lot more than that to get under my skin, kid. I’m just suggesting—some things are better left unsaid.”

“I’m just telling the truth,” says Peter, in honest genuinity. “I was always told that you should never lie. And I don’t.”

Peter is many things, Tony decides. He’s stubborn, rashful, bold. He’s also cheeky and clever, with a sharp savvy wit and raw earnesty in him that shines through when he speaks. He’s many things, but if there’s one thing he truly isn’t, it’s a liar. 

He’s a good kid, Tony finds. A little misguided, maybe, and more of a trouble-maker than not, but there’s no real meanness to him. Just a lot of hurt buried beneath that thick shell. 

“I believe you.” He nods towards the bathroom. “Now, go on in. Don’t worry about dirtying the floor, I don’t care. I’ll run the bath for you now. It’s marble. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Peter grins, a little relieved about the conversation perishing. “Yes it is, Mr. Stark!”

It isn’t long before Tony has the bath filled with hot water, a fresh white towel folded on a rack beside it for Peter to use once he’s finished. 

“Take as long as you want,” he says, as Peter begins to unbutton his undershirt. “Dinner doesn’t finish for another two hours. And scrub behind your ears.”

He waits for him in the living room of the suite on an armchair, his tailcoat and top hat tossed on his bed, reserved to wear again later. 

Reading glasses perched on his nose, Tony reads a hard copy of _Ethan Frome,_ passing the time with one ear tuned in to the childish splashing coming from the bathroom.

 _Having fun in there?_ He wants to call, but he doesn’t, settling on smiling foolishly to himself instead. 

Another page or two of reading before Peter’s voice hollers from the bath. “Mr. Stark, can you help? I’m decent!”

After setting the book and glasses on the round table, Tony frowns a little as he enters the bathroom. 

By ‘decent’ Peter means his body is bare but isn’t exposed. He’s still sitting in the bath, knees pulled tightly to his chest. By all means, he’s done a good job at washing himself, but there is the occasional spot he missed. He smiles sheepishly as Tony enters. 

“Can you wash my hair?”

_What?_

“Wash your hair?” Tony repeats, lamely. That was . . . unexpected.

“Yes, please.”

Peter looks at him imploringly, his chin resting on his knees. Without all the raggedy, scraps of clothing, he looks even thinner. All sharp shoulder-blades and protruding spine. He’s so ribby, but Tony’s not sure how he—or anyone, really—could say no to those eyes.

“Alright,” he says in the end, pulling a wooden chair over to the side of the bath. He rolls up his sleeves and tugs off his white gloves, mindful of his dress shoes and tie. 

Lathering some shampoo onto his hands, Tony slowly begins to scratch lightly at Peter’s hair. He takes his time massaging the soap into his scalp, forming foamy white froth within the dark wet locks. 

Peter seems to like it too, and after a while of supposedly trying to fight it, he leans into the touch, relaxing. 

Tony continues to run his fingers through his hair, trying desperately not to focus on how . . . _fatherly_ this moment is. 

No, definitely not thinking about that. He knows the kid two damn days, Christ.

Leaving the soap to soak into his hair, Tony picks up a cloth and starts scrubbing gently at Peter's shoulders and back, those of which are dotted and dimpled with delirious darks. Red wheels and lines are littered all down his flank. 

He’s not sure why he’s doing this, Peter hadn’t _asked_ him to. He just did.

The kid is silent throughout the entire process, eyes closed in bliss. Tony wants to speak, to fill the silence, feeling an awkward air about them, until he realises that there is nothing awkward about this. Nothing at all.

“What were they giving out about, back there?” He asks, quietly.

Peter, apparently not too keen on answering, turns his head so he’s facing the wall. 

“It doesn't matter,” he says, stiffly.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Tony says, still rubbing the cloth up and down his bruised back. “But maybe I could help?”

Peter doesn’t have the humour to even laugh at him. He shrugs, still turned away. “There’s not a lot you can do.”

“But something,” Tony insists. “I can do something?”

“I guess—I guess just by being my friend,” Peter mumbles, finally twisting his neck back around to face him. “That helps.”

“I need to know how I can keep you out of trouble, kid,” Tony says, a touch softer. “You’re not doing yourself a whole lot of favours here.”

Peter chews his lip in thought, eyes cast downwards. He’s starting to shiver, just a bit, so Tony dips the cloth back into the warm water to wring it out over his neck.

And he finally sighs, picking at the scab on his knee. “They were making fun of me,” he starts, in a low voice. “The stokers, I mean. Calling me a bastard n’ stuff. A brute. Ugly orphan. Flattering, really.”

Tony squeezes his neck.

“A friend of my Pa’s got me working on this ship,” Peter explains, after a moment's hesitation. “He worked in the pastry markets back at home—Mr. Delmar—and he was an old friend of one of the boilermakers.” His face turns grim. “So he pulled a few strings and got me working on board. But they all hate me.”

He pauses, eyes narrowing in thought. “I’m working all over the place. They wanted me as a bellboy, and then I was sent to the boiler rooms. One of the engineers agreed to take me on—like an apprenticeship.” He adds. “But all I do is shovel coal into the furnaces. It’s so hot down there, and I’m the youngest, so I get on their nerves.”

“Sounds like fun,” says Tony, dryly. Peter nods, continuing.

“So tonight, they were saying a bunch of mean stuff and—I didn’t like it. So I shoved George—who was laughing at me—and they started hitting me, so ran out of there. Then they started shouting and making noise—because big fuckin’ deal, right? And then once I made it back up from the boiler rooms, Captain's stupid puppets were already on my case, and that’s when you saw me.”

Tony isn’t good with comfort, he’s not good with emotional encouragement. He’s usually the first to leave whenever a conversation tethers on something personal, but as he looks at Peter, who has his eyebrows knitted in temper and fingers clenched in torment, he has to try at least.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he murmurs, setting a hand in his hair. “That’s really not fair. Of course you’re upset. You have every right to be.”

Peter shrugs, but his nostrils flare ever-so-slightly. “I’m used to it,” he says. “When—when my parents died, I got sent to an orphanage, but they were worse there. Hit me all the time. So I left. Strayed on the streets like some flea-bitten alley cat. Mr. Delmar found me one day, and just started giving me free food. Got me by for a while. Then the _Titanic_ happened, and here I am.”

More than a little disturbed by Peter’s story, Tony frowns into the palm of his own hand, where he’s crushing the cloth. “Do you have any plans for when we reach New York?” He asks, opting for distraction. 

“I don’t have any lodgings.” Peter gathers a few of the bubbles in his hands and blows them gently. “No money, no nothing. I’ll see when I get there, I suppose.”

Tony copies his action, blowing them onto his face, causing him to laugh and splash a little water at him. “Careful, careful!” He chuckles, gesturing to his suit. “This was costly.”

Peter sticks his tongue out and flicks more water at him. “A little water never killed anybody.”

“Fairplay,” Tony grins, squeezing his shoulder again. 

Then he sponges Peter until he’s squeaky-clean, and after that he grabs a marble jug from the wash basin, dunking it into the bath. 

“Squeeze your eyes shut,” he tells him, using his left hand to shield over Peter’s eyes anyways as he pours the lukewarm water out of the jug, rinsing out the suds.

He repeats the action several times until all the shampoo is washed out of Peter’s hair, and once that’s done he stands up, flicking water from his fingers.

“Alright.” He moves the chair back to its original spot under the small rectangular window. “I’ll leave you to finish up. I’ll figure out something for you to wear out here, sound good?”

Peter notes mutely, too entranced by the bubbles to pay much attention, so Tony leaves him be.

Back in the bedroom, he rummages through the built in wardrobe (where in which he had unpacked all of his things the night before in great distress) to find something suitable enough for the kid.

None of his suits will tailor to Peter’s frame, that’s out of discussion. A dress shirt and black pleated pants will have to do—and even then it’ll be a task to adjust them to his size. 

The shoes are going to be an issue too, Tony realises. He’ll have to stuff a pair with tissue just so Peter doesn’t trip clumsily on every step.

He settles on a long-sleeved, white, crisp collared shirt, some galluses and a pair of black pants that he can pin at the bottom so they’re more accustomed to Peter’s length. 

He leaves them folded in a neat pile in the second bedroom, throwing some undergarments and stockings along with them.

He calls in to Peter to tell him to unplug the water when he’s done, and after that to head into the second bedroom to dress himself, and then he waits some more.

Once Peter emerges from the bathroom and into the second bedroom — or so Tony can hear—he takes a little too long fumbling with the clothing for it to be normal, and Tony hopes that he’s not asked to help dress him, now. 

“You done, kid?” He says into the intersection door to the second bedroom. He gets no answer for a minute, until the door opens and Peter reappears, looking . . . not so bad after all. Everything is much too large, as expected, but all in the right place at least.

“I’ve never worn these clothes before,” Peter tells him, shyly. “Does it look right?”

“I didn’t expect it to ‘look right’ until I was finished with you anyways,” Tony tells him, waving him over to stand beside his bed. “But, not bad.”

He reaches for the tin box on his dresser, placing it on the bed. Opening it, he pulls out measuring tape, a few pins, a pair of scissors and a needle and thread, ignoring Peter’s peering in surprise over his shoulder.

“Arms up,” he orders, and the kid complies with a silly grin, holding his arms out willingly.

Tony gets to work, pulling the suspenders off his shoulders so they lay loosely at his sides, pinching up the sleeves and pinning them in place to stitch later on. He measures out the length of Peter’s limbs, a needle between his lips and scissors in his front pocket.

“You’re quite the seamstress,” Peter snorts at him, as he’s poked and prodded with pins. Tony tickles him under the arms for the comment, and his shriek of laughter is so, very worth it.

“Where did you learn to do this stuff?” He asks, as Tony starts folding up the cuffs of the trousers to sit nicely at his ankles. “All this sewing?”

“Pepper taught me,” Tony replies, without so much as a second thought.

Peter frowns. “Who’s Pepper?”

He stops what he’s doing to think. Who is Pepper? His spouse? No. Lover? Partner? Sweetheart? Employee? He doesn’t know.

“She’s my . . . significant other,” he settles on saying, avoiding Peter’s probably puzzled expression, busying himself with sewing up the second hem of the pants. Peter shakes his leg to get Tony to look up at him.

“So you’re not married.”

“No.”

“But you want to be.”

“Yes—wait, _no_ —I mean—let’s—let’s not discuss this right now,” says Tony, overcome with flustery.

Peter cackles at him. “Why? Because it’s the truth?” He teases.

“I thought you said you weren’t interested in my personal life?” Tony quirks a brow, tying a knot in the thread. “Hmm?”

“I wasn’t,” Peter admits, shamelessly. “I am now, though. You’re not as much of a lone wolf as you say you are, Mr. Stark.”

“Am I not?”

“No. You’re in love.”

That catches Tony’s attention. “Oh, am I? What gives?”

“You go all sparkly eyed when you talk about her,” says Peter, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

That makes him smile, and he doesn’t doubt it for a second. He knows he has a frequent tendency to brighten visually at just the sound of Pepper’s name, nonetheless actually speaking about her. Peter’s attention to that detail is ridiculously endearing.

“So I do,” he hums, straightening out the hems before tapping Peter’s calf. “All done. Let me get a good look at you.”

Peter steps back obediently, pulling up the galluses and spinning around with his arms out. In the process of fixing the garments, his hair has started to dry, and without being matted down by grease and muck, it reveals to be fluffed up into soft, fresh curls. 

“Your hair is curly,” Tony points out. They suit him. Although, he looks even younger.

“It hasn’t been for a while,” Peter says, shaking his head a little as they flop on his forehead. “Been too dirty.”

“It’s nice,” Tony says. _It's cute._

At first, Peter had looked like a little boy playing dress-up, but with the shirt and trousers fitted a lot more nicely, he looks almost like a grown-up. With a little more meat on his bones and growth in height, he would be a fine young gentleman.

“I haven’t been this clean in months,” Peter sighs, sitting on a sofa beside Tony’s bed, watching as he scrounges out a bowtie and pair of shoes for him.

When he’s satisfied with his finds, Tony strolls back over to Peter, handing him a small, untied white bowtie. He keeps the shoes in hand, until he comes across a box of napkins on the chest of drawers beside his bed. He stuffs them into the toe cap and around the insides of the shoe, hoping for a tighter fit. 

“These might be a little uncomfortable,” he says, holding them out as he walks back over to Peter, who has the bowtie dangling in his hands, staring like he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

But then again, he probably doesn’t.

“I don’t know how to tie a bowtie,” he confesses, confirming Tony’s speculations. “I don’t know how to tie _any_ tie.”

“That’s alright,” Tony assures him, setting the patent shoes down on the tabletop next to his book and glasses. “I’ll show you.”

And show him he does. Tony doesn’t make a gig out of it, knowing how much more complicated it is to tie a bowtie. However, Peter has nimble fingers and a calculating mind, so he doesn’t have doubts in him being able to pick it up.

“Watch my hands,” he tells him, folding the fabric before looping it underneath and over, adjusting the thicker, bow shaped parts to fit across another before tucking it under and tying it, pulling the sides to set in place.

“Easy peasy, right?”

“Lemon squeezy,” Peter says, weakly.

Tony laughs then, encouraging him into the shoes. And with that, he has a sudden spark of inspiration. “A vest,” he mutters to himself, back in the wardrobe. “He needs a vest.”

He spends another twenty minutes shoving a buttoned black vest over Peter’s head and then pinning it around the sides, where it fits in more to his body. 

“Do I get one of your fancy coats, too?” Asks Peter, hopeful.

Tony shakes his head. “Not any of my frocks—but I might have something smaller. I don’t want you drowning in anything.”

He appears five minutes after that with a shorter, pinched tailcoat, similar to his own. “This one reaches a bit above my knees, so it might be a little long in the back for you, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Come on, try it.”

Peter seems to be in Heaven as he slips his arms through the sleeves, allowing Tony to pull the dress coat on him. Cut at the waist, it hugs at his frame nicely. It trails a little long on the back as Tony predicted, but it looks good. Very good, in fact. 

Peter seems to agree, stepping in front of the full-length mirror to admire himself, swishing the tail around with a hyperactive excitement Tony hadn’t seen before.

He steps back to applaud his handiwork, folding his arms with a smirk. “Well, look at you. A fine young man if I do say so myself. You’re part of the big crowd now, kid.”

“It’s not worth it if it takes _this_ long getting ready every day,” Peter wrinkles his nose. “What’s the point? I can do and say the exact same thing no matter what I wear. I don’t get why it’s so important.”

“A man should always dress his best,” Tony recites, although he’s not entirely sure he agrees with that statement. “You know it kid, the rich wear luxury on their sleeves. It’s compulsory to flaunt it. Nobody wants to look less dressed than the next person.”

“All you rich folks worry so much about what people think of your looks,” says Peter, bluntly. “Appearance doesn’t matter. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

And that's . . . true, so Tony shuts up promptly after the remark, because it’s the plain, honest, simple truth. But not everybody thinks like Peter Parker.

And that’s unfortunate.

“You look like a little old man,” Tony chuckles, as himself and Peter make their way out of the suite. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, breathlessly. “Absolutely wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good evening!  
> well, morning. or afternoon. or night. for me it's nearing 2am and it's my birthday! :)  
> i hope you all enjoyed this chapter, it'll get much more exciting here on out, i have a lot planned for you to see:)  
> stay safe and eat ice cream!


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new acquaintances, learning the arts of being a gentleman and some storytelling.

It’s eight thirty pm when Tony and Peter enter the _Á la Carte Restaurant._

Many people are dining, gathered around large tables and echoing laughter that almost sounds practiced. They don’t pay them any attention as Tony leads them back to his previous seat, quietly reserved in a corner. Sitting opposite him, Peter spends a good five or so minutes just staring at everything in awe.

“Nice in here, isn’t it?” Tony says, picking up a menu, before nodding at Peter to do the same. Waiters cater around trolleys of buffet that catch the kid’s eyes for at least a minute. “The _Olympic_ and _Titanic_ are the first ships to feature restaurants separate from their main dining saloons. Did you know that?”

Peter, occupied with stuffing his face with the bread rolls basketed on the table, shakes his head. “No shir,” he says, through a mouthful of food.

 _Table manners_ , Tony sighs internally. _I’ll have to teach him table manners_.

“Finish your food before you speak,” he says, firmly. Peter gulps it down, sitting straighter in his seat and folding his arms. “Yes, sir.”

Tony’s not sure if he’s mocking him, but he shows no trace of anything other than seriousness on his face, so he lets it be, scanning the dinner menu once again.

He sets it down after deciding on _vegetable marrow farci_ for his starter, and lamb with mint sauce, chateau potatoes, boiled rice and creamed carrots for his main course. He glances up at the kid, whose eyes are squinting at the menu as if he can’t understand it. 

“These are all very fancy foods,” he says, pulling the menu closer to his face to peer at it, as if that will make the words any clearer to him. “I don’t know what half of this means. I usually just get mash and sweetcorn. Or a little bit of pork if I’m lucky.”

"Well, you'll be eating for all of America tonight,” Tony grins. “Do you need a hand ordering?”

“I just don’t know what to _get_ ,” Peter huffs out, impatiently. “There’s too much to choose from. And what if I don’t like it? Actually, it doesn’t matter if I don’t like it. I’ll eat it anyways.”

“If you don’t like it, you can give it back and order something else,” Tony shrugs. “It’s no issue, Peter. Go with what you think will taste best.”

Peter glances around the room, caught up in all the dazzling décor and designs and elegant folk and whatnot. He shrinks a little in his seat, and Tony starts to realise that he’s a little overwhelmed.

“It’s just so fancy,” he mumbles. “I don’t think I belong in here.”

“Of course you do,” Tony soothes, pouring water into Peter’s glass from one of the mandatory jugs that are supplied on all the tables. “You’re not used to it. That’s okay, kid. I’ll teach you everything I know, not just in mechanics, okay? Come on, let’s start with the cutlery. Right there, beside your plate.”

Peter follows Tony’s pointed finger, focusing on the row of knives and forks and spoons beside his empty plate. “Why are there so many?”

“That’s what I’m about to tell you,” says Tony, patiently. He shoots Peter another smile before picking up the smaller, outside fork furthest from the left side of his plate.

“When you’re dining formally, you start on the outside and work your way in. See this one? This is a salad fork. The bigger one beside it is your dinner fork. See it? Show me.”

Peter holds up the two forks, one in his left hand and one in his right. “Salad fork, dinner fork,” he repeats, with a small nod.

“That’s right, now set them down— in the correct order—” Tony waits until he’s done so, before continuing. “—Now, look to the right of your plate. That first one closest to it, yes, that one. That’s your main knife. The smaller one beside it is your salad knife, and the one next to that with the scalloped-shaped blade, is your fish knife. Make sense?”

Peter points to the knives as Tony speaks, mouthing the words to himself after him. He looks up with another nod. “Got it.”

Huffing light air out of his nose in mild amusement at Peter’s antics, Tony carries on. “Then, you have your spoons. The bigger one on the right is your soup spoon, and the middle one is the dinner spoon. Mainly used in spaghetti. You follow all that?”

“Spaghetti spoon, soup spoon,” Peter says, beaming. “I follow.”

“Good,” Tony says, nodding in approval. “The small fork beside your soup spoon is the oyster fork. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, now on to the top of your plate, you have your dessert fork and your dessert spoon. The spoon is always on top and facing the opposite direction of the fork. You got that?”

“I think I got it all, Mr. Stark.”

“Excellent.” Tony clasps his hands together, deciding to put him to the test. “Call them all out to me again, starting from your left.”

Peter pales. “Wh-what?”

“Come on. Call them out. In order, please.”

Peter inhales a sharp breath, before sighing and concentrating on the cutlery in front of him.

Using his index finger to point, he begins rattling off his newfound knowledge.

“Salad fork, dinner fork, dinner knife, salad knife, fish knife, spaghetti spoon, soup spoon, oyster fork, dessert spoon, dessert fork, always in opposite, and you use them starting on the outside to work your way in.”

“Well I never,” Tony grins at him, pleasantly surprised. “You didn’t even stutter.”

Peter shrugs, although there’s a rosy blush forming on his cheeks. “It’s not hard to remember the order of _cutlery_ , Mr. Stark,” he says, but Tony can tell he's keen on the praise.

“Well, you learned it faster than I did.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Tony swishes water around his glass. “Took me at least another two tries. I used to deliberately mess it up just to piss off my father. Worked like a charm, too.” He takes a swig of the water.

“Why?” Peter asks, as if he doesn’t spend his days pissing off every staff member on this ship for fun. “I mean—why your father?”

Fair question. “Well, my father, he—you know. He was cold, he was calculating, he never told me he loved me, he never even told me he liked me—I found it easier to wind him up rather than build and maintain a relationship without a foundation, or one that lacked any kind of . . . emotional support. My way of lashing out, I suppose.”

Tony’s at loss as to why he’s having this conversation with a child, but Peter’s eyes round and widen with understanding, proving that he has underestimated him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softly. “That doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

 _Neither does getting beat in an orphanage and living on the streets_ , Tony thinks, bitterly. Who is he to complain?

“Don’t apologise, kid,” he says, trying to lift the darkened mood. “Now, are you ready to order?”

* * *

“This was all included, right?” Peter says, almost an hour later when he’s making his way through chocolate and vanilla eclairs and French ice cream. “As in, it won’t cost any extra?”

Tony, finishing off his own dessert of peaches in chartreuse jelly, catches his eye across the table. He lifts a spoon to his mouth. “And what if it did?”

Peter finishes his bite of eclair (he learns so fast) before speaking. “Well—I don’t have any money and—I don’t—you shouldn’t have to pay for me.”

“Kid, you told me I had a load of money to throw around an hour ago, correct?” Tony teases him lightly, spooning around his plate to gather up the last of his jelly. 

Peter’s expression darkens. “Yeah, but that wasn’t about me. You can spend it all on whatever you want—not _me_.”

“Why?” Tony asks, curious now. He places his spoon down on the empty plate, peering at Peter with narrowed eyes. “Why does that matter?”

“Because—because—” Peter starts to work himself into a sort of distressed state, hands fumbling in search of words. “I don’t—I don’t deserve it, Mr. Stark. It’s too much.”

“Why don’t you deserve it?” Tony softens his expression. “Why could you possibly not deserve a nice, fulfilling meal?”

“Because,” Peter mutters, glaring at his lap. “You heard them. I’m a rat, aren’t I? Nuisance, pest, brute, varmint. Waste of space, good for nothi—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Tony raises a hand to stop Peter’s nonsense rambling. “You’re talking shit, kid. Complete and utter shit. You hear me?”

Taken aback by Tony’s unheard of swearing, Peter shuts his mouth.

“That’s right,” Tony says, unable to listen to him belittle himself any longer. “Whatever those assclowns have to say about you—it doesn’t matter, alright? It’s not true, none of it. Not a single one. You’re not what they tell you you are, understand?”

He leans closer to Peter, reaching over the table to place two fingers on his jaw, turning his head to face him. He locks his eyes on his.

He lowers his voice to a soft tone, with an underlying seriousness. “Don’t ever let anyone else dictate what you’re _worth._ ”

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s eyes don’t leave Tony’s face. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

They fall into a peaceful silence after that, with Peter scooping up the rest of his ice cream as Tony sits back in his chair to watch him—or to glance occasionally around the restaurant. 

It’s then that they are approached by two, tuxedo-clad men.

“Mr. Stark,” one of them greets, reaching a hand out. Tony shakes it wordlessly, observing them. 

The one who’d spoken first is tall and large, without a single hair on his head but enough on his face, greying and groomed to match his ironed attire. He has crows feet at the corners of his eyes and rings on his fingers.

The man next to him looks younger by a slight, with a clean-cut trimmed beard and short, styled brown hair. He’s tall too, broad shouldered and sharp-jawed. 

“Obadiah Stane,” the first man introduces himself, and the second one follows suit, offering a fixed grin of his own. “Quentin Beck—Beck. Big fan.”

“What do I owe the pleasure?” Tony smiles tightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Peter sees.

Beck turns his attention to him, face drawing in unrecognition. “And who’s this?” He says, a little snidely. Peter sticks his nose up at him.

“I’m Peter Parker,” he says firmly. 

Beck doesn’t hold back an amused snort. “Okay, _Peter Parker,_ what are you doing here dining with the one of the richest men in England?”

Before Tony can interfere, Peter speaks up, confident. “He’s my friend.”

Beck and Obadiah exchange scornful laughter, mocking him. “A friend, is he?”

“Indeed he is,” Tony steps in, tone dry. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but Peter here is very much a pal of mine.”

“I never thought I’d see the day you’d be near a child, Stark,” Obadiah says, snottily. “Another project of yours, is he? Shiny new toy to play with?”

They both jeer at that one, and Tony is fuelled with rage at the ugly suggestion under the remark. 

“Don’t be absurd,” he says, disgusted, forcing a false calmness through his words. He can see Peter glancing at him quizzically in the corner of his eye. “He’s an apprentice.”

_Don’t Peter. Don’t say a word._

Beck sneers. “I didn’t realise you were hosting apprenticeships aboard the _Titanic_.”

 _You don’t realise a lot of things, fool,_ Tony wants to say.

“He’s been working under me for the past few weeks,” he says instead, piecing together a story as he goes along, willing Peter to keep silent about this one too. “I’m bringing him with me to New York to broaden his studies."

“Ain’t that the truth?” Obadiah smirks, smugly. “And how old are you then, Peter?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” Tony says, half serious and half joking, but would rather the former than the latter.

“I’m fifteen,” Peter says, in all honesty. Tony wants to smack his head against the table.

“Fifteen, eh?” Says Obadiah, nudging Beck not-so-subtly. “Well, that’s better than twelve. Mr. Stark likes them young, huh?”

“What?” Peter says, facing Tony with an unmistakable plea for guidance. “What are you talking about?”

“Forget it, Pete,” Tony says, sourly, unconscious of the nickname slipping out. He turns to the two men, gritting his teeth. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse us.”

And with that, he stands up abruptly, grasping Peter’s elbow and pulling him to a stand. With a hand on his back, he guides him out of the restaurant, fingers trembling in fury.

“That wasn’t good,” Peter says once they’ve escaped, flopping down onto the same armchair Tony found him in earlier. “I don’t think they liked us very much.”

“Pfft.” Tony sits next to him, tugging at his bowtie. “They didn’t like us _at all_. Big fan my ass.”

Peter laughs loudly at that. It’s bright, radiant. “They really just came over to hassle us, didn’t they?”

“Looking for an excuse to hassle me, unfortunately,” Tony pulls the tie off, stuffing it into his pocket, before reaching over to Peter to do the same to his. “I’m sorry you got in the middle of that, kid. They’re horse shit."

Peter presses his lips into a thin line to muffle a snort as Tony loosens his tie. “I’ve never heard you curse so much.”

“What can I say, I’m full of surprises.”

“I’ll bet.”

Once Peter’s tie is folded safely in his pocket, the two of them retreat back to the parlour suite, Tony grimacing on the way when he thinks of that nasty encounter.

There, Peter’s own clothes have already been washed and folded neatly on the main bed. Brown undershirt, copper-coloured shorts, galluses, stockings and all. And then—his own, much smaller, worn boots.

Tony throws his tailcoat onto his bed. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and flops down onto the sofa with a sigh, lifting his feet to rest them on the table.

“You shouldn’t put shoes on the table,” Peter says, after disposing of his own coat and vest, copying Tony completely, rolling up his own sleeves to match. “It’s bad manners.”

Tony barks out a laugh. “Is it now? Lucky no one can see me in the comfort of my own room.”

“What, so you’re saying you should act polite only when you’re in someone’s company?” Peter frowns. “What’s the point of that?”

“Kid, nobodies gonna stay uncomfortable for the sake of their own conscience when no ones around,” Tony tells him, resting his arms on the back of the sofa. “The whole point of manners is to display it in the grace of someone’s presence. No?”

“I thought it was about being a good person,” Peter tilts his head sideways. “Isn’t it? Putting up a front before others doesn’t make you higher up the scale. It just makes you fake and in-genuine."

Tony lets that sink in before he says anything. “I mean.” He leans his head back. “The point is to make good impressions on people. ‘It costs 0 pence to be nice’ and all that.”

“Then what has eating from the right knives and forks and dressing in fancy outfits got to do with anything?” Peter cries, nearly pulling out his hair in frustration.

“That’s just . . . being formal, Peter,” Tony shrugs, unbothered by the entire topic, although the kid seems to be taking it very seriously. “It’s just being proper.”

“Being ‘proper’ is stupid,” Peter declares, flopping next to him with a huff. “It’s stupid, meaningless, and a ridiculous way to live. Who cares if you have the shiniest china bowls or the prettiest gowns? Being entitled and arrogant never does anyone any good. Ever.”

“Sounds like you have a bone to pick with some people,” Tony snorts, very amused by Peter’s strong opinions on the upper-classmen. “But I hear you, kid. I do.”

“I just think there’s better ways to go about things,” Peter sighs, finally. “I wish people didn’t care about how much money you have. I know I don’t. Well—that’s a little biased, because I tend to think every person with wealth is mean.” He shoots Tony an apologetic look. “But I try not to, because I think everyone should get treated the same. It shouldn’t matter where you’ve come from, where you live, or what clothes you’re wearing—if you’re a good person and accept others for who they are, what else matters?”

Tony hums in thought, nodding slowly at the kids little speech for turning to look at him with a fond smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Those were some wise words, Pete."

“Yeah, well, I meant them.”

“I wish everyone thought like you,” Tony confesses, moving his arms to fold them across his chest. “I really do, kid. And for the record, you’re right. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t be."

“Then why do you act the way you do? Think you’re better?”

“Kid, _seriously_ ,” Tony says, sharper this time. “Where did you hear that? Or see that? Did you read something about me in the paper? Because let me tell you—some of those journalists are out to make me look _real_ bad—”

“I saw you,” Peter mumbles, interrupting him. 

“What?” Tony frowns. “When? Where? Doing what?”

“A few years ago, during the opening ceremony of Stark Industries,” Peter says, quietly. He’s looking at his hands, which are folded in his lap. He’s nervous. “My parents brought me. I was six."

Tony, unsure where this is headed, racks his brains for any sort of memory that could be associated with Peter’s story. But, he can’t think of anything, so he stays mute as the kid continues.

“You were on the big steps outside your building, and it seemed like the whole world came to see. And I-I went up to you—to say what, I don’t know, _hi_ , maybe?—But I never got the chance because you took one look at my clothes and told me to go beg somewhere else.”

_Oh, shit._

“Pete . . .” Tony starts, filled instantly with horrible regret.

“I was so upset I didn’t even stay for the ceremony,” Peter continues, gnawing on his lower lip between his teeth. “So I got my parents to bring me home. And I tried to forget about it—I really did, because you build such incredible things and it’s so hard not to admire—but every time I saw your stupid face in the newspaper on Sunday mornings in the markets, I’d just think of that day and get _so_ angry.”

“Imagine,” and Peter is starting to get properly mad now, all bared teeth and white fists. “Imagine, your hero, your idol, you _finally_ get the chance to say _one word_ to him and he turns you away, because what—you’re not _worthy_ of speaking to him? Imagine that, Mr. Stark. Just imagine.”

And Tony can’t imagine, because it’s awful, it’s horrific, it’s so incredibly _cruel_ —and it’s worse, the guilt churns terribly in his stomach—because he remembers.

He remembers the day, the roaring crowd chanting his name under the golden disc of sun. He remembers standing there in all his pride and glory, success shining through his teeth. He remembers that one little boy dressed head to toe in rags—and he remembers, just as Peter said, sending him away. 

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” he tries, trying to draw the kids eyes on him to show him his genuinity. “I-I don’t know what to say. I was—I was different back then. Young, foolish, arrogant. It’s no excuse—and I know there isn’t any amount of apologies in the world that can make up for what I did, I just want you to know I am not the same man back then as I am now. And I shouldn’t have said that to you. It wasn’t right at all.”

Peter shakes his head, eyes closed. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” he says, and even smiles a little and—oh, good fuck, Tony does not deserve this kid. 

“It’s not alright,” he persists, tapping Peter’s cheek lightly to get him to look at him. “And it will never be alright for me—for anyone—to do that to a kid. I’m so sorry you had that impression—that _memory_ , of me, all these years. I’m sorry I let you down, kid.”

“You made up for it,” Peter says simply, gesturing to his outfit. “You didn’t even know it was me, and look what you’ve done already. It’s okay. I know you’re better, now.”

And despite everything, Tony has to hold back a smile at the kids incredulous interpretation, as if being horrid is a terrible sickness that needs to be cured—except, then he realises, perhaps it is.

He sets a hand on Peters back. “Can I give you a hug?”

“No,” Peter says, cheekily, rising from his seat suddenly. “You _can_ come with me to the Third-Class decks, though. I heard they’re having a party tonight.”

“A party?” Tony repeats, dumbly. “Wha—where? Their six foot wide cabins?”

“No,” Peter rolls his eyes. “In their general. They have a bar, too. Come on. If there’s one thing you don’t know about us poors, it’s that we know how to have a good time.”

With that, Peter starts for the door, or so Tony thinks until he picks up his freshly cleaned clothes. “Wait!” He scrambles after him, trying to gather all of his things as fast as he can. “Hang on, Pete, you need to put these back on.”

Scoffing good-naturedly at him, Peter shakes his head. “No way. I’m gonna get back into these. Ditch the hat. And the coat. Don’t put the tie back on. We’re going improper style.”

And so, Tony stays as he is, and with a rolled up shirt tucked into dress pants, he waits until Peter submerges from the other bedroom, back in his usual attire.

“Feel like yourself again?” Tony winks, before a: “Because _I_ feel naked.” And the kid cackles into the corridor.

“This way,” he grins, tugging on his arm. Tony follows along without complaint.

“Trust me, Mr Stark,” Peter adds. 

“We’re about to have a _lot_ of fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have chapter three! 
> 
> a little on the short side but things really get moving here on out. 
> 
> thank u so much for reading.


	4. FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some instrument playing, secret sharing and new friendships found, too.

Peter, as usual, was telling the truth.

If Tony is completely honest, the Third-Class general room is the last place he expected himself to be on the second night aboard the _Titanic._ That is, if he’s _entirely_ honest.

However, he would be being incredibly _dishonest_ if he said he wasn’t having the time of his life—because Peter was right. These people sure know how to throw a party.

The band has striked up a loud, traditional and upbeat orchestra, playing all sorts of instruments: uilleann pipes, bodhráns, flutes, fiddles, accordions—a true Irish jig. The atmosphere is wonderful—everyone is merry and careless and joyously drunk. 

Those that aren’t sitting at oak-wood tables downing pints of beer are dancing mercilessly, carefree and blithe. There aren’t any rules to dancing, Tony notices, and if there is, it’s seemingly to just have fun.

And that’s easy, here. Too easy.

Peter is in his element, spinning a little girl round and round, shrieking with laughter above her high-pitched giggles. The little girl's mother, Esther Hart, is seated next to Tony wearing a long skirt and high-collared blue blouse, with a brown shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Your boy is sweet,” she calls over the loud music, a little tipsy but eyes so kind. She must’ve seen him and Peter come in together. “He’s very good with my Anne.”

“He’s a good kid,” Tony agrees, not bothering to correct her. She must not know who he is. “She’s a lovely little girl,” he nods towards Anne, being lifted up now by Peter, who has just enough strength to carry her. 

“Oh, thank you, she’s just a darling,” Esther gushes, tucking a dark strayaway lock from her up-do behind her ear. “She’s so excited to meet her father in New York. It’ll be wonderful when we finally get over there.” She sighs contentedly, taking another sip of her beer. Then she asks: “What are your plans for America?”

Tony, keeping a watchful eye on both Peter and Anne, circles a finger around the rim of his glass. “To continue to do what I do best,” he shrugs, mindful of his intake. “Invent things.”

“Oh my Goodness!” Esther gasps, after taking a second to get a proper look at him. “You’re Tony Stark!”

Oh, well, cats out of the bag. 

“That’s right,” he grins, bowing at her as a joke. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss.”

She laughs. “Well, would you look at that! I didn’t know you to have a son,” she adds, bemused. 

Tony, a little disheartened at having to let up the secret, shakes his head. “No, no, Peter’s not my son,” he tells her, wishing instantly he'd kept up the charade. “He’s my . . . apprentice. Right. Travelling with me to see the sights—you know the sorts.”

She beams at him, rosy cheeked and freckly across her nose. “Don’t we all,” she finishes the last of her glass. “So what are you doing down here then? In the steerage hold?”

“To have a good time,” he tells her truthfully, and she laughs again, satisfied by his answer.

“Then you’re in the right place,” she says, just as a breathless Peter and Anne make their way over, red-faced and grinning wide.

Anne clamours into her mother's lap, exhausted after the ordeal, but Peter seems limitless with his energy, latching onto Tony and attempting to yank him out of his seat. 

“Come on, Mr. Stark!” He shouts, and his cheeks must be hurting now, from smiling so hard. “Come dance with me!”

Tony is all too ready to decline the offer, but one look at Peter’s reckless eyes and hopeful grin, and he’s up out of his seat and allowing himself to be dragged by the kid in seconds.

Peter, by all means, is like Tony—two left feet without an ounce of rhythm, but he doesn’t _care_. He’s tugging Tony all around the place like a maniac, jumping and singing shamelessly and just being the kid that he is.

Tony thinks back to dances he’d attended with Pepper, and how they’d been sophisticated and elegant and fashionable with slowed music and champagne. This is quite the opposite—and he finds that although maybe controversial to his peers at home, he enjoys this version much better.

Peter doesn’t let up even when Tony can tell he’s dizzy, spinning relentlessly and squealing with glee as Tony twirls him out, and pulls him back in. 

“Shall I dip you like a lady?” He teases, and Peter shakes his head, overcome with happiness. 

“Don’t you dare!” He warns with a laugh—and then laughs even harder as he clings when Tony does just that, supporting his back as he tips him backwards, playfully.

It’s not like he would drop him, anyhow. Peter is slight and short for his age, and although Tony isn’t exactly tall, he’s sure taller than him, and much stronger too.

Once they’re both too wheezy to continue, Tony hauls them back over to Esther and Anne, pulling a chair over from a nearby table for Peter to sit down and catch his breath.

“That looked like fun,” Esther teases as they sit, panting. Anne is still in her lap, blinking tiredly at the commotion. “I might bring her up soon. You look tired yourself, Peter.”

Peter _does_ look a little sleepy-eyed, but despite the obvious signs of exhaustion, Tony knows the kid is nowhere near ready for bed.

“I'm fine, Miss Hart,” said kid says, still heavy-breath’d and sweaty-curled. “Don’t worry about me. The night’s still young!”

And with that, he whisks himself away again, disappearing into the dancing crowd.

Esther chuckles at him, fondly. “You can’t keep a hold of that one, for sure.”

“No,” Tony agrees, mirroring her fond smile. “No, you can’t.”

He looks over to see Peter in what seems to be him trying to persuade one of the band members into letting him up beside them on the band-stand. They all seem not to mind his pestering, welcoming him with warm smiles.

 _You’re one of us_ , their eyes seem to say. _Welcome_.

One of the fiddle-players places his bow and instrument down to lift Peter up onto the bar right beside the stand, where the men make way for him by moving their drinks and doffing their caps in a friendly manner as if they’d known him all their lives.

Once Peter is seated and settled between two men on the mahogany stools, he reaches an arm out, where another band member hands him a flute. 

Tony’s lips quirk. _No way._

And then, all at once, the orchestra stops, and everyone turns to face them to see what had caused the sudden silence, a chorus of ‘ _aww_ ’s echoing at the lack of music.

Grinning, Peter waits until he has everyone's attention before he takes a deep breath, and begins to play.

And, well, the kid might not have a knack for dancing—but this, this is what he was meant to do.

As he strikes up a wonderful, silvery-rich shrilling tune that not only fulfills—but _cures_ the stilled silence instantly, and Tony can’t help but gape at him in shock. Who knew? Peter, a remarkable flutist, too? What else is this kid good at?

 _Seems like you’re more full of surprises than me, kid_ , he thinks, as a smile stretches across his face.

He waits until Peter’s been playing solo for a little while longer before he starts to clap to the beat of his melody, and only seconds after that the entire crowd has joined in, cheering him on with the taps of their feet and the claps of their palms.

Soon enough, as everyone claps in time, the orchestra strikes up yet again—first the bodhán, then the accordion, the pipes, the fiddle—all in time with Peter’s flute.

And one by one, the people begin to dance once more, sailing around the stuffy room with airy anvils of laughter escaping their mouths.

Tony stays clapping with those still sitting, cheering Peter on with all of his might. Behind him, Esther is doing the same, holding Anne’s arms to clap her hands for her.

“That’s my boy!” He calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. Peter looks at him through his eyelashes, and Tony knows he’d be smiling for all of America, had he not the flute between his lips.

The orchestra picks up a faster rhythm, Peter following along without missing a beat. He blends in perfectly, just fits right in. The talent is all there, and judging by the stunning rapidity and skilled shifts from beat to beat, it’s far from basic. No, not basic at all. Peter is a fantastic flute player—a master of the art.

 _Where on Earth did he learn to play?_ Tony thinks, drumming his feet on the floor. _Who taught him? How did he get so good?_

It’s especially interesting considering how nearly every male who strives for social acceptance usually does so by wishing—or learning— to play the flute. It’s an instrument that has become a male pursuit for the upper classes, and then for the middle classes, who take it up with the hopes of some social climbing. It’s considered a skill dictated by worth.

But Peter has no real desire of pleasing anybody but himself—a good thing, that—so this hidden talent is not that of his interest in social prejudice. No, this is merely amateur expertise stemmed from aptitude, passion and brilliance.

 _Well, I'll mark my words_ , Tony watches Peter play, with pride. _You are something special, kid._

He vows, from that moment forward, that he will never condone anyone telling Peter that he’s worthless in any way.

Never again.

As the composition of the orchestra plays out it’s outro, Peter strings out the final chords on his own, wrapping up the song with a fabulous finish.

Immediately, there is a roar of spontaneous applause, whoops and hollers and whistles directed his way, and he smiles bashfully behind the flute. 

Tony throws in cheers of his own, placing two fingers in his mouth in a high-pitched, piercing whistle. Peter ducks his head in embarrassment, the men beside him slapping his shoulder and patting him on the back—although he’s smiling as if he’ll never smile again.

“Thank you!” He calls, offering a playful bow. He is glowing in animated joy, and he adds: “It was an honour!” before hopping off the glassy bartop and returning the flute back to the man who’d given it to him. 

The band members ruffle his hair, complimenting him and such, before Peter thanks them again, beetroot-red by the time he’s sitting back with Tony, who offers him a shower of praise as soon as he does.

“Well, you’re quite the musician, aren’t you?” He grins, as Peter groans and buries his head in his arms. 

“That was beautiful, Peter,” Esther says, bouncing Anne on her lap a bit. “Anne thought so, too. Didn’t you, Anne?”

A sleepy nod is the reply, and Peter lifts his head to chuckle at her before thanking Esther for the flattery.

After that, Esther bids them both a goodnight before bringing Anne back up to their cabin, ready for bed. Tony considers turning in himself, before he gets an idea. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asks, and Peter, gulping down a glass of water (Tony could’ve easily gotten him some gin or whiskey, but no way was he allowing Peter to drink at such a young age, damn it being unforbidden) nods hastily, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm.

“Alright,” Tony offers a hand, pulling him to his feet with ease. “Let’s go, kid.”

* * *

It’s brisk and cold on the upper deck.

The night-time breeze, along with the sharp sea air from the freezing ocean, is bitter and numbing. Tony’s hands are already blue and Peter’s nose is red raw.

“We should’ve brought the coats,” he scowls, from where they are sitting on the wooden deck, backs pressed against a wall opposite the railings so they can look at the sea.

“Mhm,” Tony agrees, side-by-side with the kid. “But nice to get some air.”

Peter hums in reply.

They fall into a peaceful silence, the ship's engine and gentle rocking motion from the sea catering to the quietness.

After a while, Tony asks the burning question lingering in his throat. “Where did you learn to play?”

Peter shifts beside him, uncomfortable. “My Pa taught me before he died.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

More silence. That is, until Peter starts fidgeting. He looks like he wants to say something—but either doesn't know how, or is unsure as to whether or not he _should_ say it.

“He and my Ma died only a year ago,” he sighs, at last. He tries to still his chattering teeth, clenching his jaw tight. “Of Typhus. Pa got it first, Ma after. I got taken away to work in the cotton mills factory while they were sick. Then they died. Ma first—Pa after, this time. They said it was mostly from grief. They didn’t even care about _my_ grief. I didn’t get to tell them goodbye—all I had was Pa’s old flute, but they took it in the orphanage and I never saw it again.”

Tony wonders briefly if there’s any period in this kid’s life that isn't brutally unfair.

“How long did you stay in the orphanage for?” He asks, regretting it as soon as he says it.

“I only lasted a few weeks,” Peter hugs himself, resting his chin on his knees. “I hated it so much. The mills was royalty compared to there—and that's twelve hours of labour spinning cotton in these big scary machines, so you can imagine how bad it was. I spent most of the time locked in the attic, as punishment for things I can’t even remember. One time one of the boys tugged my hair so hard a clump of it came out in his fingers, so I hit him to get him off me—and who got punished? You guessed it. I did.”

Peter’s voice is spiteful and bitter, and there’s that darkened glint in his eye that seems to reappear every time he talks about his past.

“I just . . . left. Out the front gates. We were out in playtime in the front yard, and a group of boys came over cos’ I was by myself. One of them just shoved me and I got a really big cut on my knee, and uh . . . it, you know, it hurt, so I was like, ‘what the hell?’ and he was like ‘that’s your own fault, puff-guts’ and they started shouting at me—for what? What the fuck did I do?—anyway, one of the nuns literally, like, _attacked_ me, and when she tried to drag me back inside to throw me in the attic, I bit her and left. ”

“I’m sorry, come again? Did I hear you correctly?” Tony says, aghast. “You _what_? You _bit_ her?”

“Yeah,” says Peter, bluntly. “Just on her arm. It wasn’t like, hard, or nothin’. Just enough for her to let me go. And she did. So I ran.”

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Tony mutters, watching where Peter is pinching the skin on his knee, instead of the scab, this time.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, simply. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It was a long time ago.”

“A year isn’t a long time, Peter,” Tony reprimands gently. “You’re allowed to be upset about it if you want to be. There isn’t an expiration date on trauma—trust me.”

“I know.” Another shrug. “I just don’t see the point in dwelling on the past. Nothing I can do about it now.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Tony nods. “But, still. Don’t dismiss anything, big or small, just because that was then and this is now. You were still hurt, and hurt can go a long way if you don’t take care of it properly. Bottling it up is gonna make you explode eventually, kid."

Peter doesn’t reply for almost a minute, frowning in thought at Tony’s statement. “I’ve never had anyone else to tell this to. Before you, I mean. Nobody cares for what I have to say.”

“Well I think that’s a real shame,” Tony murmurs. “Because you have a lot of important things to talk about. You have a big brain in there, Pete, and a big heart to match. Anyone who doesn’t take the time of day to recognise that is a fool.”

Peter presses his lips together, lowering his head. “Thanks,” he whispers.

Tony squeezes the back of his neck, before turning back to the black sea. He opens and closes his mouth in an almost mirror imitation of Peter’s previous indecisiveness, the words thick and heavy on his tongue as he struggles to find the right way to speak them.

“Can I ask, what if you—well, what if _I_ —okay so the thing is, if I could—I mean, would _you_ like to, you don’t _have_ to, obviously—look, here’s what I’m tryna say—”

Peter interrupts him with a snort, pulling at his stockings. “Do you want a minute, Mr. Stark?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “What I’m saying is—or, well, what I was _trying_ to say—okay, I’m just gonna say it—Pete, if you don’t have anywhere to go once we get to New York, I’m just—I was just _wondering_. . . if you needed a place to stay. And by place I mean my house. In America. My America house. With me.”

He lets out a breath after that barely coherent ramble, studying Peter’s face carefully to get a glimpse of what he’s thinking.

“Like, live as in _live_. . . with you?” Peter repeats, dumbfounded. “Like, in the same house and the same kitchen and . . . stuff?”

“That’s right, kid,” Tony says, reminding himself to breathe. “I just—I didn’t think you’d fancy getting shipped off to some orphanage anytime soon. Was I right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So, what are you thinking? If you by all means need time to think about it, be my guest, of course—or if that’s really weird and uncomfortable to you that’s fine too, I get it one hundred percent—”

“Yes.”

“What?” Tony is taken aback. “Yes? Right now? That easy? No second thoughts?”

Peter shrugs, but he’s forcing back a grin. It’s blatantly obvious. “Your house is probably big,” he guesses, and he’s not incorrect. “I know your one in England is. And about, I don’t know, a trillions worth in shillings of tools and equipment for inventing, right?”

Tony laughs at that one, shoulders sagging in relief. “I wouldn’t say trillion, kid,” he grins. “But pretty much everything else, yep.”

“And I can use them?” Peter asks, hopeful. “I can . . . learn? Create? Build?”

“All day long,” says Tony, softly. He looks at Peter with warmth, despite his frozen purple toes and ripened ears. “I’ll do my best to look after you, kid. I can’t say I’ll be much good but . . . I’ll try. And that’s a promise."

Peter glances at him for half a second, before he inches just that bit closer. 

“You can give me that hug, now,” he says quietly, failing to hide yet another smile. 

And Tony does just that, wrapping an arm around that small frame and holding him close. It takes Peter less than a moment to relax into his side, moulding to him like a puzzle piece. Just right.

Tony rubs a hand up and down Peter’s arm. “You can change your mind any second, kid. If you want out—that’s perfectly okay, too. Don’t feel . . . obligated or anything to, like, please me.”

“When—” Peter starts, with a disbelieved laugh. “Have I _ever_ done that? I want to, Mr. Stark. Really. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, well, you can tell all the circus freaks down in the boiler rooms all about it tomorrow,” Tony says, with a wink.

At the mention of the boilermakers—let alone his job, Peter whines, dropping his head onto his knees with a groan.

“Oh, god, I’m going to get a _walloping_ when I get in tomorrow.”

Well, that’s alarming. “What? What for? Why?” Tony is frantic.

“Uh, hello? Earth to Mr. Stark? I just left today, remember? I had a lot of work to do that I just bailed out on.”

“That’s right.” Tony says, deflating. “Oh well. Game over for you, I guess. Nice knowing you, though.” He shrugs.

Peter feigns deep offence. “Excuse me? Throwing me away that fast? It was your fault!”

“Okay, _first,_ it wasn’t my doing, second—what, throw you away? I would never!”

“Practically feeding me to the wolves, Mr. Stark.”

“Now _that’s_ an exaggeration,” Tony says, although he is starting to wonder if there is any way he can get Peter out of that mess.

“Pssh,” Peter rolls his eyes playfully. “I can practically _feel_ them eating me alive. Ouchhh—it _hurts_ , Mr. Stark! Look what you’ve done to me!”

He keels over dramatically, cradling his arms in mock pain, throwing his head back in ‘agony’ with an exaggerated, drawn out groan. “They’re starting with my arms, sir! They’re gonna eat me piece by piece— _gahh_!"

With that, he collapses into a pile on the deck, flattening out before squirming relentlessly on the floor, as if trying to escape from imaginary hands pawing at him. “They got me Mr. Stark! They got me!”

“Not if _I_ got you first,” Tony grins, leaning over to tickle Peter’s stomach, digging and poking at his sides as the kid starts to squeal. “No—no, no, no stop— _stop,_ stop, have mercy! I’m sorry I’m— _sorry_ —”

“I don’t think you are,” Tony carries on, in a sing-song voice over Peter’s desperate pleas. “I’m having a little trouble telling if you really mean it.”

“I do!” Peter gasps, thrashing around. “I do—I really mean it! I sw—I _swear_!”

Tony gives in, then, letting him up with a fond chuckle. 

Peter’s cheeks are flushed with adrenaline, curls wild and tousled, folding over his eyes. He’s out of breath, much like when he’d been dancing back in the steerage hold. His smile is the exact same just as then. 

Happy.

“I was good at pretending to be getting eaten alive,” he states, nodding his head after in confirmation.

“Oh, yeah. Stellar acting skills. You should join a theatre,” Tony agrees, stifling a snicker.

“You’d have to come see me, then. Front row.”

“Hm, no can do, kid. I got things to do.”

Peter crosses his arms, looking up at Tony incredulously. “Sure you do.” He nudges his side. “I don’t need you there anyways. You don’t deserve me.”

“I sure don’t,” Tony agrees softly, far more sincerely than he intended. 

Peter smiles at that, hugging himself closer. The temperature seems to have dropped, considering it’s almost impossibly colder. The deck-wood is frosting over and a chillier breeze has picked up, wafting around and nipping at their ears. Tony rubs his hands together to warm them up.

Exhaling, Peter puffs out the moisture from his lungs with shiny eyes, watching as the condensation from the icy air turns it into an airy fog. “I’m a dragon!” He says, breathing out the mist to demonstrate. “See? You see?”

“Huh,” Tony says, waving his fingers through the breaths from Peter’s mouth. “I guess you are.”

“That’s my favourite thing about the cold,” Peter tells him, repeating the action in fascination. “I could pretend I’m breathing fire all day long.”

“Stellar acting,” Tony repeats, and scores himself a laugh.

“Come on,” he says after a while, when he can’t stand the cold anymore. “We’d better turn in. You’ll be up early, I presume?”

“Early enough,” Peter sighs, and follows him off the deck.

“You don't plan on sleeping in that laundry room tonight, I hope?” Tony says, as they reach the Grand Staircase to the B-deck cabins. 

Peter looks at him as if he asked the world’s stupidest question. “ _Linen_ _closet_ ,” he corrects.

“And where else am I going to sleep?”

“Well,” Tony begins to climb the stairs, Peter soon in tow. “I don’t know about you, but I remember having _two_ bedrooms in my suite. One that’s unaccompanied, in fact. Such a shame for those sheets to never get slept on, if you ask me . . .”

“I’ve got to be dreaming,” Peter pauses on the stairs, resting against a pillar in front of the beautiful timepiece that tells them it’s eleven thirty pm. “Pinch me. Seriously. Just pinch me. Too much good has happened for all of this to be real.”

“I’m not gonna pinch you, Peter,” Tony laughs at him. “Start believing, kid, because I promise you—it all begins now.”

“It’s an honour, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, face too serene and eyes too honest for it to be interpreted as a joke. He reaches out to touch Tony’s sleeve.

“It’s an honour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!  
> my apologies about getting this chapter up a few days late, but here we are with flutist peter and tony having a heart.  
> i hope u all enjoyed and ill see u next time!!  
> (pls comment)


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a goose chase, scheming and distasteful discoveries

The following morning, Peter is nowhere to be seen.

Tony has never felt more torn in his life. On one hand, he knows Peter is working, somewhere under the decks of this ship probably getting mankied up all over again.

One the other hand, however, he has an unnerving voice telling him Peter has been thrown overboard for his notorious streak of rather . . . insufferable, misbehaviour.

 _Peter’s fine_ , he tells himself as he dresses for breakfast, pulling on his morning coat and trousers. _You’ll see him later, and realise you’re yappering to yourself like a blabbering fool._

He keeps an eye out for him all throughout his poached egg, buckwheat cakes, grilled mutton kidneys and bacon, with a bit of narbonne honey on the side. Although he doesn’t really expect to see Peter, supposing that much like yesterday he will appear sometime in the evening, he finds himself searching every corner, glancing at every step, pausing at every door.

But he dines alone again, and for the first time in a long while, he misses the company.

Around midday he finds himself invited to play a round of gin rummy, with some gentlemen and their fiancée’s in the lounge, where he wins five games in a row before they start making bets.

The offers are high—with a room full of people who wear money like warmth in Alaska, the dollars are thrown around like napkins from a waiter. 

“Stark.” The man opposite him—Alfred Samuel, deals out the hand with a cigarette between his lips. “You win this round—I’m setting half my savings on the table. You have my word sir, half my savings.”

“Oh, please,” Tony picks up his cards, corners of his mouth turning up in a slight quirk. “I don’t gamble, gentlemen. And I don’t need your charity.”

And so, the game begins.

* * *

“It’s all too easy to do this, Beck. It just needs to be _precise_.”

“Precision would be nice,” Beck hums, watching Obadiah pace the private promenade deck as he speaks his thoughts. “There is no room for failure.”

“We will _not_ be at fault!” Obadiah says fiercely, turning to punch the wall with his fist, vexed. “We have _one_ opportunity to do this, Mr. Quentin, _one_. We board this ship for one reason and one reason only. The days are slipping. We must set these foundations—lay out the groundwork, before the big event. This mustn't trace back to us, you hear? We need to do this _right_.”

“And I don’t disagree with you, Obadiah,” Beck says, lighting a cigarette. “It’ll all fall into place. We have a distraction now, anyhow. That little minx of his is going to interfere with our plans unless we get him out of the picture. Don’t suppose you have any ideas of that one, perhaps?”

“Oh yes, _Peter_ ,” Obadiah sneers, holding his throbbing hand. “Don’t forget—he’s a worker, Beck, an employee on this ship. I don’t know how the brat gets away with running around like he’s one of us folk—that child will never amount to a thing. I assure you, Peter won’t be an issue. It’s Stark we focus on, and what we want. Understand?”

Beck nods slowly. “And how do we plan on . . . cutting the rope, if you will, tomorrow night? Have you spoken to Sir Frederickson and Mr Charles?”

“Already taken care of,” Obadiah confirms, sitting down next to him. “Don’t you worry about that, Beck.”

“Not at all, Obadiah,” Beck says, puffing out smoke from his cigar. “Not at all.”

* * *

At four minutes past four, Tony does the one thing he promised, and writes a telegram to Pepper.

He keeps it short and sweet, filling her in on what’s been happening for the past three days, who he’s met, what he’s seen. It goes something like this:

_Pepper,_

_I did say I would write as soon as I boarded. And here I am. I couldn’t risk waiting another second for you to wring my head—you’re scary sometimes._

_The ship is magnificent, Pep. I wish you could be here, and I often find myself wondering what I would do to go back and convince you to sail with me. I would do a lot, I think._

_I haven’t done too much. I settled in fast and explored the decks and leisures, but none of those are a pinch of interesting. Not like a little something else that’s been._

_Oh, Pepper. Wait until I tell you all about Peter._

_He’s one of the youngest staff working below deck in the engines. Only just fifteen. He’s intelligent and a trouble-magnet, but you’d be sweet on him. You’ll never meet a boy just quite like him._

_You’ll hear from me again._

_Tony_

With it being twelve shillings and sixpence to send the first ten words, and then nine pence per word thereafter, it’s costly to send a telegram of so much, but it’s worth it.

He’ll tell her more, later, once they dock in New York. He’ll mail her letters every day of every week. She’ll know just as much as if she were right there with him.

He fills all this out in the enquiry room in the C-deck, paying his money where it would be sent to the marconi office, and leaving with a satisfied smile on his face, his heart soaring.

The day carries on, and it feels bland and boring compared to the chaos of yesterday. His contentedness only lasts so long until he’s anxious all over again, squirming restlessly in his seat, notebook flipped open and fountain pen in hand.

The air from being on the upper deck again doesn’t bring him inspiration as he’d hoped—his thoughts keep trailing back to Peter, and he wishes that, for Christ’s sake, the kid had woken him before he left this morning. For the sake of his conscience _and_ his heart.

But instead, unlike the night before, where Tony had watched Peter spend ten minutes touching the bed as if it would vanish into thin air if he got any closer, he woke up to an empty bedroom, empty living room, empty suite, bar himself. 

It seems uncharacteristic of Peter to leave without even a note or such. But, then again, maybe he just doesn’t think about those kinds of things. Who knows—Tony doesn’t. Not yet, but he will. 

Eventually.

The only thing settling his rising concern is knowing that Peter probably had the best sleep of his life in that bed, and if it's any certification, Tony thinks the way the kid had passed out the mere _second_ his head hit the pillow is plenty a giveaway.

So with that thought, he hopes—prays, that Peter is doing alright. Wherever he is, with whoever he’s with.

That leaves him at ease. For a little while, at least.

* * *

The tank top of the Titanic is not a nice place to be.

It’s located in the inner bottom of the ship's hull—the very bottom, basically—the platform of which the ship's boilers, engines, turbines and electrical generators are housed.

They’re connected with the decks of the ship by flights and flights of stairs; the twin spiral stairways near the bow giving access up to D-Deck.

Peter Parker is currently sweating his balls off, constantly feeding coal into the furnaces and pulling the straps of his suspenders up every five minutes. It’s hot and loud and the stokers and trimmers are shouting murder, roaring at every worker to keep them in check.

When he’d gotten down there early morning, just as he’d predicted, he’d gotten the thumping of his life by Joseph Bendell, one of the more superior engineers—well, the chief to be precise. He hadn’t shown his face any longer than two minutes before he was getting beat, just as he’d expected. 

Bendell hadn’t even said a word before smacking Peter across the face, hard. 

“You incompentent, stupid, _stupid_ little boy,” he’d spat, red-faced and seething. Peter had held himself with all of his might, refusing to betray his ego by flinching or hiding from the hits—which was hard to do, considering Bendall hit pretty damn hard.

After that, he’d muttered something about a punishment being discussed for him, which didn’t sound exactly fun, before he was ordered to get into work immediately.

The shifts for the stokers and their foremen is four hours on and eight hours off—demanding, with the scalding heat and ash leaving them stripped to their undershirts and shorts, much like Peter, whose clothing is much too large on him anyway.

Andsince they can’t overwork Peter in that way, the stokers had come up with a new way to punish him, and a cruel one, that.

“You aren’t allowed near the First-Class decks anymore, you understand?” Bendell’d said, poking him in the chest so hard Peter had stumbled backwards. “You will not be seen by any of our passengers, and tonight, you will sleep in the crows nest.”

Which leaves Peter to where he is now, eating his bread roll with barely a bit of butter and milk, in the corner of the small pantry on the E-deck for the engineers, electricians, greasers, stokers and trimmers to eat. 

Sat curled up under the small round window, Peter chews his food as silently as he can, uncomfortably hyper aware of the odd stares he’s receiving from the crew members every so often.

He has never wanted Mr. Stark more in his life.

Feeling very awkward with a purple bruise swelling his right eye, Peter keeps his head down, avoiding everyone with a throbbing skull.

He feels very lonely and sad, and for an embarrassing moment he thinks he's going to cry—until he shakes it off by shoving more bread down his gullet, wishing he had a First-Class buffet set in front of him, fancy knives and forks be damned.

It upsets him a lot more than he thought would, knowing they’ve forbidden him from the First-Class decks. They warned him, telling him that he’ll be watched from now on in case he tries anything scandalous.

Peter thinks that’s entirely unfair, and his heart races at the thought of not being able to see Mr. Stark again. What about all their plans? What about what he’d just promised him the night before? What if he forgot all about Peter and went to live in New York without him?

 _Stop being an idiot_ , he thinks with a scowl, ripping off a piece of crust from his roll with more force than necessary. _You trusted him for a reason._

Which, surprisingly to him, is the truth. It’s not often he finds himself opening up to anyone about himself, or worse, his past. In fact, it’s not _ever_ he finds himself doing such a thing—and even more shockingly, he doesn’t feel guilty about it. Or like he’s betrayed himself. He feels good. Better.

He feels . . . _safe_ , with Mr. Stark, and he doesn’t know why. He can’t for the life of him fathom what it is about this man that has him so unravelled. Especially considering their first encounter, Peter was certain he’d hate him forever, even if by any chance he’d run into him again someday.

And he’s surprised himself. He really has.

It’s not normal for him to grant a person with such authority so much access to him, especially someone like Tony Stark, and yet here he is, miserable and practically snotty nosed and teary-eyed over the fact he doesn’t get to see him anymore. What the hell is that all about?

For the first time since his parent’s deaths, he is yearning for someone. Wanting to feel just that bit more secure, grounded, _wanted._ He’s laughed and smiled more in the past three days than he has all year, all because of Mr. Stark.

And it feels wonderful, to him. Really, truly, wonderful.

But now it’s all gone. For the rest of the voyage on the _Titanic_ , Peter will be stuck boiling his brains out in the boiler rooms, with only the Third-Class decks to wander about on—which are fun, but not the same without company.

He stops eating to think about who he is for a second. When has he ever relented to punishment? When has he ever given up because someone just _said so_? When has he ever been broken enough just to do as he’s told, whether he likes it or not, just because?

Never, that’s when. And he doesn’t plan on losing his streak, now.

And then he thinks about the chief officers and the captain and the stokers and everyone on this ship who is bigger and stronger than him—and who can throw him off board in an instant.

And he remembers that he’s on the fucking _Titanic_ , for Christ’s sakes. He can only hide for so long before they find him and do as they please, and even Tony can’t save him from that one.

So that leaves him with just one option. To behave.

He turns to the rest of the engineers. They laugh at him once they catch him looking, knowing that they’ve won.

He shoves the rest of his roll down his throat. Narrows his eyes.

 _Fine,_ he thinks, wiping his hands down his shorts.

_So be it._   
  


* * *

By dinner, Tony is worried.

He finds great difficulty in engaging with those at the table he’s sat in. The captain himself is strolling around with his main crew, looking very fine and professional as always with his medals and hat, a proud smile on his face as he glances about the saloon.

Tony is dining with the same crowd from earlier, who have taken a shining to him, he knows, and he sits and eats and answers their questions with questions of his own—all the while searching and searching, with no signs of Peter.

He’s ansty in his seat, playing it off with a cool smile and smooth responses, lighting up the table in effortless laughter and delight. He knows his presence is charming.

“Care to join me in some brandy, gentlemen?” Mr. Charles says, once they’ve finished their meals and have been throwing around story after story with the cellists playing in the background. 

“Yes! What a good idea,” Frederickson says, turning to Tony with a dazzling grin. “You’ll accompany us too, Stark, won’t you?”

“I’m afraid I’ve got places to be and things to do,” Tony replies, placing his handkerchief on the table as he rises. “But always a pleasure. Ladies, thank you for your company. Goodnight, everyone.”

And with that, he heads for the one place he thinks Peter might be.

Well, first, he makes a pit-stop to his suite, looking to dress in something a little less formal. But when he opens the door to the parlour—something is off.

And he can’t quite put a finger on just what that is.

Tony’s always had an eye for the slightest of misplacement, the smallest of movement, the subtlest of remarks. He can pick up one thing as soon as another puts it down—this situation is no test for his ability.

Because almost at once, as soon as the door closes behind him, he has an unnerving, slightly unsettled feeling in his gut.

_Someone has been in here._

The tissue box is two inches more to the right, his pillow is more fluffed than when he left, his drawers just that bit more ajar. The paintings the bedroom stewards hung up are crooked, and the shoes he’d given to Peter are moved from where they’d been splayed messily on the floor.

Now, it’s easy to think a steward or a maid or whatnot came in to take some things for washing—and only that would be the case, if they hadn’t come this morning.

So, someone has been in his parlour, and not only that, by the looks of it, snooping, too.

 _What the fuck_ , he thinks, as he goes from room to room, searching for any signs of a human hiding in there. _What the actual fuck._

And then he wonders that maybe Peter stopped by, but when he checks the bathroom and second bedroom, there still aren’t any signs. No sooty foot or hand marks, no cushions on the floor or just any feeling that it was the kid in the room.

But then, Peter would’ve made it clear if he was in here. No, whoever it was in here didn’t _want_ Tony to know, and that’s what triggers the alarms in his head.

After doing another round of searching to see if any of his things are stolen, he relaxes just slightly to see it’s all in place. Everything is fine. Maybe it was a Steward. Maybe he is just over analyzing a situation that doesn’t even exist.

And so, because the clock is ticking and he has one person on his mind, he rolls his eyes, tears off the bowtie, hat and tailcoat, rolls his sleeves up just like the night before, and heads out the door.

Whatever it was, it’s fine. There’s a much more important valuable missing right now, anyways.

Now, the _Titanic_ is big. Getting from the staterooms on the B-Deck all the way to the bottom of the ship is a bit of a trek with no direction, and it takes him a while to get even an inkling of where he’s going.

In the end, he heads right back to the steerage hold, hoping Esther or any other one of Peter’s new friends, might be around to guide him on the kids whereabouts.

Tonight, there is no party, just adults lazing around with a few and children chasing around after rats. Esther, without Anne this time, is sitting on one of the bar stools, and she waves cheerily when she sees him.

“No Peter today?” She asks, as soon as he’s within ear reach. 

“No, that’s actually what I uh, what I came down here for. I haven’t seen the kid at all today. Don’t suppose you have either?” Tony says, dreading the answer he already knows.

“I really wasn’t kidding when I said you can’t keep a hold of that one,” she says, smiling, unbeknownst to Tony’s seriousness. “But, no, I haven’t, I’m afraid. What happened? I thought you boarded together? How did he get lost?”

 _Get lost_. “Well, there’s a funny story, actually,” Tony says, hesitating slightly before deciding to just take the plunge. “Look, Esther, I’m losing it, here. Can I tell you a secret?”

She sits up straighter then, lightheartedness washed from her face instantly. “Of course.” She pats the stool beside her. “Here, take a seat. What’s going on?”

“The thing about Peter is,” Tony starts, once he’s settled. “I didn’t actually . . . God, how do I word this, I didn’t exactly— _know_ him, before boarding this ship.”

Esther pauses, staring at him in confusion, Tony holds his breath.

“What?” She scrunches her nose, clearly at loss. “Yesterday you said he was an apprentice, and now . . . you’ll have to explain.”

Tony finds the humour in that. “Yeah, not my best moment,” he grins a little sheepishly, as he’s handed a pint of whiskey. “I met him on the first day on the upper decks.” He chooses not to mention how he actually met Peter nine years ago—he’s too ashamed.

“And he’s, I mean—ugh, don’t say this to anyone, but he’s a worker, not a passenger. He’s been palling around with me to hide from all the assholes giving him a hard time shoving coal or whatever down there—I knew he was going get into trouble today because he just quit and ran out _yesterday_ , but I haven’t seen him since last night and I’m genuinely concerned that they just chucked him into the sea.”

Esther stares at him for a whole minute before she responds. “Are they—are they even allowed to throw them overboard?”

“Christ, no,” Tony says, for some reason suddenly very unsure of himself. “Jesus, no, no. No way.”

“So what exactly are you looking to do? Go to the what, engine rooms and snuff him out?”

“Well, not exactly—okay, fine, yeah, exactly that. I just hate the thought of him being so stuck down there. I need to know he’s alright.”

“The boiler rooms aren’t far from here,” Esther says, a glint in her eyes. “My second cousin Jeremy is working as one of the trimmer staff. I can show you to the door, but that’s it.”

“You’re a blessing, Esther,” Tony says, leaping from his seat and holding a hand out. “Let’s go.”

She touches his arm on the way out. “You know, Mr. Stark—”

“Tony. Please.”

“Tony,” she corrects herself with a smile. “I really wouldn’t think you’ve known Peter just a few days. And I did think you were his father.”

She pauses just as they get up the steps, before she braves it. “But then again,” there's a knowing look on her face as she leads him down the hallways. “It seems like you sort of are.”

And, it's terrifying, absolutely, incredibly, terribly terrifying—but Tony finds that, with his heart beating several beats faster, he almost agrees with her.

Almost.

They don’t take all that long, stepping inside a small elevator that takes them right down to the E-Deck, where the corridors are white and nowhere near as grand as First-Class.

They continue on in silence before they reach the door Esther had been talking about.

She stops right then, clasping her hands together. “This is it!” She says, looking over her shoulder. “Once you go through here through the small room, there’s a ladder in the floor right down to the boilers. I hope you find him.” She adds, softly.

“Thank you, Esther, you’re a star,” Tony says, kissing her on the cheek before opening the door and stepping through into a tiny, noisy room, where there’s a small railing over a square cut-out in the ground, a hot orange light coming from it. 

_Bingo_.

He doesn’t waste time, climbing down the ladder with a slight grunt before he’s bombarded with sickly-hot, sticky, blazing heat, men covered in soot shovelling coal with burns and ash tarnishing their skin.

“Oi! What’re you doin’ down here?” 

Well, shit. Time to face the party.

Tony turns around to see a man holding a shovel. “Number four needs more coal!” Another voice calls, and there are plenty of them shouting at one another. It’s hectic.

“It’s not safe for you down here!” The stoker says again, taking in Tony’s clothes. “Rich or not, this ain’t no place for you. Go on, get back up where you belong.”

“I’m looking for Peter,” Tony says firmly, steam puffing in every direction. Christ, it’s so _hot_ down here. “You know, short, fiery, yaps a lot. You know that kid, right?”

“ _Peter?_ ” The stoker sniffs, wiping his arm across his forehead. “Hell, none of us seen him since this afternoon. Always wondering where that lads gone off to—does everything besides his own bloody job, he does!”

“That’s not the point,” Tony argues, but then again, he’s got his answer. He turns to find someone else to ask, and when he does, he gets the same reply, more or less.

“Parker? Nah, disappeared midday just like he always does. Got a right scruffing for his behaviour though—served him right.”

“Who?” Tony demands, looking around. “Who the hell _hit_ him?”

The fireman frowns at him. “What—you gonna go tough him out yourself? Kid got what he deserved, mouthing off and sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. We don’t like rats down here,” he sneers.

“Peter isn’t a fucking rat,” Tony spits, harshly, surpising the worker. “Don’t you—don’t you dare, _ever_ , say that about that kid. You all know jack _shit_ about him—I’ll ask one more time and don’t fucking make me say it again— _Who. Hit. Peter_?”

The man stares at him incredulously for a moment, before rolling his eyes, nodding towards the narrow passageway behind Tony where other boilermen are working. “Suit yourself. You’d be looking for Officer Bendell, Chief engineer. He’s down by the end of this room at the head of the dampers. Have fun.”

There’s snide there, underneath the direction, so Tony doesn’t bother giving thanks as he turns and leaves down where he was instructed. He gets a stare and then some, but carries on calling for Bendell, without really thinking about what he’s going to say to him. All he knows is that he’s livid. Absolutely livid.

When he finally does come across a tall, mustached man clad in the same attire as the rest of them, who snaps his head at the sound of his name, Tony has to physically hold himself from doing or saying something he’ll regret. “Bendell, I presume?”

Bendell puffs out smoke from his cigar, eyeing his garments with a nod of addressment. “And what are you doing here surrounding yourself with all this filth? You’d want to head right back up and scrub yourself raw, Stark.”

“I came here to ask you a question, and I expect an answer,” Tony replies, ignoring him completely. 

“And what would that be, hm?” Bendell says, raising a brow, and Tony wants to clock him right in his ugly face.

“Where’s Peter?”

Bendell takes the cigar out of his mouth. “Peter? That snobby brat? Pssh, hell if I know—and hell if I care. Probably running around this ship like the uncivilised scoundrel he is, dirtying up the place. Bloody hell.”

“You hit him,” Tony narrows his eyes, lowers his voice. “You hit him this morning. What the fuck?”

“For the cheek as any young lad gets,” Bendell says, smirking. “Christ, Stark, don’t get stroppy about it. It's the only way he’ll learn. Actually—why do you even care? How do you even _know_ the little runt?”

Tony is _seething_. “I’d shut my damn mouth, if I were you, _officer_.” He spits the title, like it’s dirt on his tongue. “And quite frankly, it’s none of your damn business how I know him. That’s not what I asked. I asked: ”’Where the hell _is he?’_ ”

Bendell scoffs, nose turned up. “None of your concern,” is his answer, and Tony is miliseconds from throttling him right then and there. “I told you, I don’t know nor do I care. Now, get out before I get my men to assist you.”

“Fuck off,” Tony says, hating himself as he returns the way he came.

Just as he’s about to climb back up the ladder, a hand taps his shoulder. He turns to face a much younger looking boy—nineteen, perhaps. Staple skinned and soft eyed.

“What?” He grunts.

“I just—I heard what you said to Bendell and — he’s lying. We all know where Peter is,” the boy says, eyes concerned underneath all the cinder and ash. “We’re not allowed say so because it’s not captain's orders.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Well?” He says, really in no mood to be humoured. “Don’t just stand there. Where is he?”

“He’s—” the boy turns and looks over a shoulder, but the shouting and shovelling and sound of the engines is too loud for anyone not paying attention to hear. “They put him in the crows nest. For the entire night—and it’s—it’s wrong. It’s really wrong. You have to help him.”

“Don’t worry,” Tony says, already turning to haul himself up the ladder, fury in his bones.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry for the late update!! life has been hectic recently but here it is ladies and gents i hope u enjoyed !


	6. SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a blue suns kiss, early morning rambles and a mystery mission.

_The crows nest_ , Tony’s thinking, running around the upper decks in the pitch dark of the night sky. _Who puts a kid to sleep in the fucking crows nest?_

There are a few deck officers and able seamen roaming around the deck, torches in hand, but besides them nobody is here. They aren’t keeping watch on anything in particular, really, wrapped up entirely in their seemingly very fascinating conversation. 

Tony knows from his travels on the _Lusitania_ back in 1907, that those in the crows nest can't stay up there too long—two hours perhaps, at most. The headwind from the speed of the ship with the -2 degree temperature causes it to be fragile for the lookouts to be exposed for too long—hence the rotations of shifts.

So keeping _Peter_ , a small, thin, just a boy, up there _all night_ —is absurd. Do they want him dead? Is that the sinister intention behind this? 

He almost has half a mind to fetch for the captain himself—before he remembers his disliking of Peter and how, despite this unjustified punishment, he will still get the blame for all of his other doings. He’s no angel, after all. 

No, Tony will have to get him down from there himself. Without anybody seeing.

Although, now on the deck with the dark sea in sight, glancing upwards at the nest—he has to wonder: how in any circumstance is this deemed in any way alright?

With usually at least two lookouts up in the nest, Tony is a little surprised to see that it’s empty. He’s stepped further back, right at the bow of the ship, leaning against the railings.

He can see from there that it is in fact, blatantly vacant. How in the _hell_?

 _Fuck, Pete_ , he thinks anxiously, the cold nipping his face. _How am I gonna get you down from there?_

He hopes he won’t have to wait until the crew on deck have gone to sleep before he can have a chance of getting up there—Peter surely can’t last that long in such cold.

 _You don’t know how long he’s been up there,_ he reminds himself, bitterly. _He could be there for hours already, for all you know._

He waits by the railings until a few of the able seamen and other crew have scattered further away from him—not that it matters. They aren’t focused on Tony whatsoever, billionaire or not.

“ _Peter_ ,” he hisses, once he’s under the nest again. “Peter, can you hear me?”

When he doesn’t get a response, his blood runs cold.

“ _Peter_!” He tries again, louder this time. “Pete, it’s Tony. Come on, wave a hand at me or something, so I don’t lose my will to _fucking_ live.”

Again, zero response. 

_For Gods sake_ , Tony groans internally, inhaling sharply. What is he supposed to do now? Climb up after him himself?

Yes. That’s exactly what he’ll do.

There’s a ladder on the inside of the mast, which is once again surprisingly unlocked, so Tony has no troubles with actually getting up into the nest, until he falters halfway through because—well—what if Peter isn’t actually up here?

 _Better be safe than sorry_. 

He sighs, and continues his climb.

When he does make it inside, through a cut-out entrance from the mast, his heart shatters at the sight before him.

Peter, with the scrappiest of blankets that doesn’t even cover his body, is lying curled up in a corner, lips a pasty blue and fingers swollen and numb. His eyes are shut with frost caking his lashes and his hands are shaking from where they’re tucked under his chin.

 _They wanted him dead_ , Tony thinks repeatedly in his mind, like a cursed chant, over and over. _They wanted him dead, they wanted him dead, they wanted him dead._

“Peter?” He whispers, kneeling down to touch him. His skin is white and glacial and prickled with red pain-spots. His bones are an icy sludge and his hair is frozen-over wheat, crisp and brittle.

_This is bad. This is so bad._

He shakes Peter’s shoulder, as gently as he can, trying to coax him back to consciousness. “Peter, come on, wake up for me. Upsy-daisy's—that’s it—open those eyes, kid. Nap times over.”

Peter stirs just the slightest, but doesn’t wake.

“Peter, _please_ ,” Tony cups his face, terrified of how cold it is. “Please, please, open your eyes. Come on, I want to see them. They’re brown like mine, aren’t they? Right, right, I can’t know for sure unless you _let me see them_. Please. Fuck, kid, you gotta wake up.”

He’s desperate now, hands moved from the kids face to place at his sides, rubbing up and down to create any kind of warmth, shaking him harder to rouse him.

And finally, _finally_ , Peter, slowly but surely, opens his heavy lids, blinking drowsily.

They land on Tony’s. “Wh—Pa?”

_Oh, Pete._

“No, kiddie,” Tony murmurs, pulling the blanket tighter around him despite it’s useless size. “It’s Mr. Stark, remember?”

“Pa,” Peter repeats, in a whisper, before promptly closing his eyes again.

“No, nonono, _no_ —Pete, _Peter—_ keep them open for me.” Tony shakes him frantically, inducing tired, aching whines from him. “Please, kid, just keep them open— _fuck_ , just—I’ll do the rest—just keep those eyes open.”

Peter blinks blearily, eyes searching in hazy daze. It’s almost as if they’ve landed on something he’s not sure is really there. 

Tony, knowing he can’t carry Peter down a ladder, physically whacks his palm against his forehead, trying to think, think, think.

“Can you move for me, bud?” He asks in the end, tapping his face. “Yeah? You wanna try getting up? Come on, that’s it, good boy, up we go—up, up, up—”

Placing his hands under Peter’s armpits, Tony gently lifts him to his feet. The kid is a ragdoll in his arms, limp and docile and horribly flaccid, as if his bones and muscle have melted away altogether.

He sways dangerously the second Tony loosens his grip, sluggish and uncoordinated with his movements. He’s like a glitch, body moving a second too fast for his brain to keep up.

“Pa,” he mumbles, again, as Tony steadies him as best he can. “Pa—where m’I—m’not—m’not feeling—m’having a hard time—”

“That’s okay,” Tony soothes, hushing him with a thumb across his cheek. “That’s okay, I’m gonna get you down from here, alright?” 

“W’na go home,” Peter’s head lolls back, knees threateningly close to buckling underneath him, and his skin is starting to go grey. “D’n w’na be here—please bring me h’me—”

“I’ve got you, kid, I’ve got you,” Tony tells him, whilst thinking, _I don’t got him, I don’t got him._

He’s not sure how he’s going to do this. Peter certainly isn’t heavy; but holding him and trying to climb down a ladder is too awkward. It won’t work, he needs, he needs— 

“Peter,” he says suddenly, and jostles him lightly, still holding his underarms. “Peter can—can you climb on my back?”

Peter, garbling incoherently with pupils dilated to the size of a planet, can’t even focus on him when he speaks. “You—m’—I can’t—I can’t—” he gasps, body very nearly giving out on him.

“No come on, stay with me, bud,” Tony grunts, propping him up once again. “Pete, pete—I just—I need you to get on my back. Can you do that? Can you do that for me, kid? I’ll hold you, I promise.”

Peter shakes his head, dizzy and incomprehensible, and out of nowhere, starts to cry.

His face screws up, eyes squeezing shut but his body doesn’t even have enough strength to cry, and it’s apparent, because it’s enough to trigger his legs into crumpling beneath him.

Tony gently lowers him to the floor, starting to realise how cold he himself is getting. 

But Peter cries in a way like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, trembling from the tears and producing these horrible, heart-wretching howls, so loud Tony wonders for a split second if someone might hear him.

“Peter, Peter, shh,” he murmurs, cradling his head and rocking them both slowly back and forth. “Shh, kid, you need to help me help you, alright? And then we’ll be out of here and you’ll be warm and safe tucked in a nice big bed with a fire. That sounds nice, doesn’t it? I know it does—come on, come up, I need to get us down here before we _both_ freeze to death, and what good would that do?”

Peter’s sobs subside, just long enough for Tony to haul him to his feet again. He hates this—he hates it so much. He wants to let Peter cry his heart out for however long he needs, but if they stay up here much longer, he’s not sure what they’ll do, or where they’ll end up.

“W’na go h’me,” Peter gasps out again, head dropping forward onto Tony’s chest, and it’s devastating. It’s so _hard_ to listen to. He sounds so broken, so _young_.

“I know, baby, I know,” Tony whispers, shutting his own eyes. “I know, I know. I’m going to take you there, okay?”

He gets a nod in response, which is good; Peter is finally acknowledging what he’s saying.

“Okay,” he says, eyeing the ladder. “Okay, okay. I’m gonna sit down, and you’re gonna sit behind me, alright? Arms around my neck, let’s go.”

He sits at the entrance, feet resting on the top steps of the ladder. He sits Peter behind him, and waits until he has skinny legs around his waist and bony arms around his neck, before he ensures a firm enough grip, and starts to climb.

He has to twist around with Peter on his back, and as soon as he’s fully turned with his hands gripping the ladder, he holds his breath, praying Peter will stay clinging on.

He does and—fuck, Tony doesn’t know _how,_ but he stays wrapped around him like a monkey, little body shaking as he strains his stiffened muscles to hold on as long as he can.

“You’re doing so well, Pete,” Tony stays encouraging him the whole way down. “That’s it, almost there, kid, just a little longer—few more steps—”

And at last, they’re at the bottom, where Tony gets barely a foot in before Peter slides from his grip, collapsing to the floor in a heap, curling up inside the mast, looking for warmth—any kind of warmth. 

“Pete,” Tony’s borderline exhausted at this stage, his breaths are heavier from the strain and he wants nothing more than to just wrap this kid in twelve blankets until he’s safe and cosy and a good kind of sleepy.

“Peter, come on, don’t give up on me now, we’re so close—so close, come on, up and at ‘em—arms up, I’m gonna carry you.”

Peter doesn’t respond, closing his eyes again. 

_No, not happening, kid._

Without thinking twice, in a blur of desperation and intense overwhelm, Tony scoops the kid right up, shifting him to sit comfortably in his arms. 

“Shall I carry you like a lady?” He whispers, leaning down to the shell of Peter’s ear, and for some reason, that makes him sort of emotional.

He blinks away the tears as he hurries out of the mast and off the decks, where finally, finally, they’re cocooned in warmth.

It’s not much, but it’s a vast difference from the chill outside—and yet still not enough, so he rushes through corridor after corridor, dashing into the lift just before a steward pulls the gate closed. 

He feels like crying as soon as he sees the door to his parlour, and subsciously pulls Peter closer as if to say, _‘look, we made it, we made it, we’re here, it’s okay now_ ’.

It takes him a moment to open the door with the kid in his arms, but once he does, he slams it behind him with his foot, settling Peter on his canopied bed with care. He tugs off his shoes and pulls a thick blanket from the sofa over him, just for the meantime.

After that, he’s quick to get the bath running with hot water, dipping his hand in every so often to check it’s not too scalding before he retreats back to his bedroom, where Peter is puffing out slow, uneven breaths. He’s still so cold.

“God, kid, I’m sorry,” Tony sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed. It’s nearing twelve o clock now, had they really been out there that long?

He feels like the shittest human being on Earth. Undoubtedly, at that. This is even worse than when Peter told him the story of him being an arrogant dick back in the day—no, this is worse. He almost—fuck—he almost left Peter up there to _die_.

What if he hadn’t gone up? What if that kid in the boiler rooms hadn’t coughed up the truth? What if he stayed an hour later in the smoking room and didn’t find Peter until it was too late?

 _He's safe you imbecile_ , a voice says wryly in his brain. _He’s sleeping. He’s breathing. He’s alive._

But he almost _wasn’t_ —and that’s what scares Tony the most.

And the fact that _that_ scares him scares him even more, because he can’t—he can’t place it why, why he’s so connected to the kid. Why he’s so hopelessly tuned in, a deep fondness within him everytime Peter opens his mouth. 

It’s been _three days_ , for Christ’s sakes. Who bonds this much with a person in three days?

Especially such a child; Tony has never been good with kids. Ever. 

And he’s never been quite so fascinated by one, either. Because Peter is different. Truly, different. The kid is decades ahead of his time.

And Tony reckons he’ll change the world someday.

He turns the taps off, the tub filled halfway with warm enough water, not too hot, not too cold. Tackling Peter into it is the hard part.

“Wakey-wakey, kid,” Tony says, softly, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, bath time. Nice and warm, it’ll get rid of the cold under your skin real fast, I can promise you that.”

Peter snuffles a snore in response.

_Oh, Jesus._

“Kid, we played this game earlier. Get up—it’s all nice in there. With, the, uh—um, bubbles and stuff.”

With Peter visibly less frozen than before, it’s easier for Tony to relax, but his lips are still the faintest of blues, skin still just a little too white. 

Still, it’s nice that he’s not potentially dying anymore.

With a deep sigh, Tony lifts the kid from the bed, arms under his knees and around his back, carrying him to the bathroom.

“I don’t wanna make this uncomfortable for the both of us,” he says, raising a brow. “So you better wake up so I can leave you to it.”

Peter buries himself further into Tony’s chest, downright ignoring him—a very clear no, then.

“Peter,” Tony sighs again, sitting on the chair under the window. “Come on, bud. We’re almost there. Once you’re done in here you can sleep for the rest of your life.”

Well. That sounds dark.

Swallowing down that thought, Tony blows gently on Peter’s eyelids, and that proves to be the one thing that actually wakes him up.

“Ms’r. St’rk,” he slurs, from where he seems content enough curled in Tony’s arms. “Wh—where m’I?”

“My bathroom,” Tony murmurs, sitting him up to wake him properly. “See? I got you, kid. You’re okay now. Just hop in the tub and get warm for me, yeah? After that you can get into some night clothes and get back into bed.”

“Okay,” Peter mumbles, and it’s good, it’s good, he seems a little more aware of his surroundings, coming back slowly.

_He’s not dying. He’s not._

“Do you need help?” Tony says, once he’s propped Peter on his lap. He’s sort of prepared to just stand the kid up and leave, let him do his bits, but Peter seems happy out enough just to sit on Tony’s knees, looking around the bathroom as if he hadn’t seen it before.

“What?” Peter says, then, around seven seconds too late. He’s still registering everything too slow. “What did you say?”

“I just asked if you wanted a hand,” Tony says, resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re good to go, though, yeah? I’ll just be outside if you need me.”

“M’fine,” Peter whispers, ducking his head. “M’fine. You don’t gotta—don’t worry about me. M’fine.”

Tony has the feeling Peter is talking about something else entirely.

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s okay if you’re not fine, too, kid. You don’t have to be the strong one all the time.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, and Tony realises that now really is not the time to be having this sort of conversation with him.

“Alright,” he says, tapping the side of Peter’s leg as an indication for him to stand up. “In you get. Take as long as you want—well, not too long. I know you’re tired as hell, kid.”

Except, Peter keeps a grip of him as he slowly undresses, holding onto his arm as he steps out of his stockings, shorts and undershirt, leaving him in just his drawers. 

He turns to Tony with the biggest eyes he’s ever seen. “M’not fine.”

“Okay,” Tony replies, softly, trying to steady his racing heart. “Okay that’s—that’s fine, that’s fine. I’ll stay and help like last time, okay?”

A very small, feeble nod.

Tony turns around as Peter undresses fully, hissing as he sits into the bath with his knees to his chest. He stays silent as they run through the same process as—yesterday? No, the day before that. Christ, he can’t remember.

And this time, Tony doesn’t push him for conversation.

He can see the yellow, purple blotches of bruises on his face, purpling at the eyes, and it makes him want to twist Bendell’s neck into the side of a curb.

He leaves halfway through just to set up some night gear and whatnot for the kid, folding back the bedsheets so Peter can just slide right in and get comfy. The bed is huge, canopied like his own; it’s the one he slept in last night. He knows it’s like sleeping on clouds.

When he gets back into the bathroom, Peter is sitting shivering on the chair, towel wrapped tightly around him.

“Come on,” Tony reaches for him, conscious of the time. “Come on, buddy. Almost there.”

He leads Peter back to the second bedroom, supporting his wobbly legs, and sits him down on the bed, where his night garments are laid out for him.

“I’m gonna let you get dressed into these, alright?” He tells him, waiting until he gets a nod in reply before walking back into his own bedroom, sitting on the armchair beside his bed with a heavy, drawn-out sigh. He’s too damn old for this.

He has the electrical heaters on, the faux fireplace lit, the orange light from the lamps radiating a soft, balmy glow. Everything about this suite is meant to be _warm_ —all he wants is Peter toasty under the covers, black-blue flesh and ripe-raw ears and yellow nibbled fingernails forgotten.

The kid calls out to him less than five minutes later, and when Tony enters the second bedroom Peter is sitting up in bed, dressed in one of Tony’s striped nightshirts and trousers, made of soft cotton and flannel.

“Feeling better?” He asks, sitting at the edge of the bed. It’s so big, Peter drowns in it, incredibly small amongst the pillows. 

“Yeah,” the kid croaks, the sleeves of Tony’s sleepwear lengthy on his arms, trailing much past his fingertips. “Still a little chilly, though.”

“Then get under the covers, c’mon,” Tony stands up, coaxing him to lie on his back. Peter scrambles to do as he’s told, flattening out and sinking into the comfort. “There you go, there you go.”

He tucks him in as gently as he can, pulling the covers right up to his chin. He smooths back the damp curls on his forehead, relieved that the skin there is almost back to a somewhat normal temperature. 

“You’re alright, Pete,” he murmurs, running the pads of his fingers over his eyes to close them. “You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry,” is all the kid whispers, before he falls into much needed sleep at last.

Tony stares there for just a little while, carding his fingers through the soft, fresh hair. Once Peter’s breaths even out, he stands up, flicks off the oil lamps, and leaves for his own bedroom.

He stops at the connecting door between his bedroom and Peter’s, faltering on the knob. 

He’s about to close it—and he thinks of today.

Today, where he’d woken up to find Peter gone.

Today, where he hadn’t seen the kid at all.

Today, where he had discovered Peter had been practically sent to die.

Today—where he could have very nearly lost him.

He leaves the door open.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, tossing and turning in his bed, and despite the fluffy mattress and pillows and everything about it that screams comfort, Tony feels nothing but stiff unsettlement, brain wide awake but body not.

And he’s angry. The longer he lies there, left with nothing but the dark pinching and thoughts plaguing, he’s in a wax before he knows it, a fit of pique, resentment and rage boiling on his tongue.

Why would they do that? How? How could that have been condoned? Did the lookouts just _agree_ to that? The nest had been empty bar Peter; but surely that’s not permissible?

And it’s like—Peter is—Peter is sweet. He’s quick and quarrelsome and fiery and doesn’t _take_ shit, but he’s sweet and smart and bright and brilliant and—Tony doesn't _get_ it.

He’s eager and passionate and sometimes timid, but he’s well-rounded and adaptable with a vulnerability that isn’t always there to see—and he’s gifted and earnest and creative and so very _just_.

And how can you dislike him? No, really, how?

Peter’s soul is tender and bruised, rancid and banded with tight knots of aches and soured suffering—and yet it’s like a blooming flower, opening up only slightly, but the more it does the sweeter it gets, revealing the purity of a kind boy beneath that biting shell.

A boy that has been knocked down and kicked to the ground, a boy that would sell his only shoes for pennies to give to someone else who doesn’t have anything left to give, a boy that fell and got hurt, hurt, hurt.

A boy that is Peter, who is so very _good_.

He doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him, and neither does anyone, but Peter has grown up knowing nothing but just wickedness and cruelty, in a world that doesn’t appreciate him. Not for a second.

He decides that tomorrow, he will ask Peter questions. 

Tomorrow, he will take matters into his own hands. 

Tomorrow, he will find a way to make this right.

Tomorrow is not today, and it will be better. 

It will be better, even if it’s the last thing he does.

* * *

They don’t get to tomorrow.

Well, not before Peter wakes up screaming murder at ungodly hours of the morning.

Okay, maybe that is an exaggeration, but that’s what it certainly _feels_ like, when Tony scrambles from his bed to rush into Peter’s room as soon as he hears the wailing.

When he gets there, Peter is thrashing around in the bed, some of the pillows sprawled on the floor. He’s sweating, and despite the obvious distress all over his face, Tony can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees the damp beads on his forehead. At last, Peter is finally fucking warm.

“Hey, hey, shh Pete,” he says, turning the lamp on. It’s still dark outside. “Bad dream, bud, come on, wakey-wakey.”

He pulls the sheets back from where they’re tangled all around Peter’s arms and legs. He’s sweating, heavily, face crumbled in a mixture of what seems to be anguish and misery, panting slightly.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, wake up, kid,” Tony soothes, unbuttoning the top of the nightshirt from where it’s tight around Peter’s neck, in the hopes of relieving some stress or struggles with breathing. “It’s alright, Peter, it’s alright.”

When the kid finally does awaken, he sits up so abruptly he knocks head-to-head with Tony, gasping, throwing his fists blindly where Tony catches them in lenient shock at the reaction.

“Ow—you're okay kid—relax, Peter—Pete, calm down—”

“Mr—Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers, blinking into focus. He looks around him, looks where Tony has his wrists in hand, rubbing soothing circles into his palm. “I—I’m—what?”

“Bad dream,” Tony says, slowly dropping his wrists back onto his lap. “You’re alright. You’re safe, here with me.”

Peter nods, swallowing thickly, eyes darting everywhere. “Did I hit you?” He asks after a while of silence.

“It didn’t hurt,” Tony reassures him, winking to prove his point. “It’s okay, Peter, just breathe for me, yeah?”

“I’m not tired anymore,” Peter says, ignoring him. He turns to look out the tiny window, where the sea is sloshing with the movement of the ship. He turns back to Tony. “Can we go outside?”

“Peter, are you _nuts_ ?” Tony is literally aghast. “Wh—What do you mean _go outside_? Did the last who knows how many hours just not happen?”

“I can put a coat on,” says Peter, bluntly. “I can’t hide inside forever just because it’s cold. I need fresh air.”

“Peter— _fuck_ —you just _skipped_ death — and now you want to go back into that? Right now?”

“Yes?”

“No. Absolutely not. Lie down, come on, I’ll sit with you if you’re not tired,” Tony tries, forgetting Peter is just a stubborn brat when he wants to be.

“No,” he says, swinging out of bed despite Tony’s attempts at grabbing him. He twists out of reach, walking over to the window. “I want air. Only for ten minutes.”

“Peter,” Tony’s stern, now. “I said no. I was the one that saw what state you were in—not happening. No way. Get back into bed, I’ll open the window if you want air.”

Peter glares at him, suddenly, and he’s a little taken aback. Are they fighting now? Is he overstepping a boundary? He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t like this.

When Peter takes a few steps toward him, slow, Tony takes a few back, more confused if anything. 

Gritted teeth. “You’re not my _Pa_.”

Okay, overstepped a boundary. Except—why does that snarl hurt so much?

“I know I’m not, Peter,” Tony swallows. He’s never seen this much _venom_ on the kids face before. What is going on?

“Then let me go outside.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

This is painful. Tony can feel a headache coming on. “Pete, stop it. Now _really_ isn’t the time to play the brat card, alright? I said no, and that’s final. I don’t need to be your Pa to tell you what’s safe, and what’s not. Understand?”

He doesn’t mean to come across as sharp as he does, and he regrets it when Peter flinches a bit, glaring even harder. It reminds him of their first encounter. 

“Brat, huh?” He sniffs, nodding. “Yeah, and all the other things too, right? Rat, pig, filth, scum, waste of space, useless piece of—”

“Peter stop, stop—” Tony feels like such a fucking asshole. “Stop I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m sorry, that was wrong of me to say. I told you, you’re none of those things and you never will be.” He sucks in a breath. “We’re upset at each other now, so let’s just . . . calm down for a second, alright?”

Peter is breathing a little heavier now, too, riled up. He doesn’t say anything.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” Tony says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He searches for Peter’s eyes, so like his own. “I’m not—I’m not trying to be bad to you. I just want what’s best for you—you know that, right?”

Peter nods, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Everything I do is in your best interest,” Tony continues, speaking before thinking; from his heart. “Really, Peter. I know— I know that might be a little hard to believe but—it’s the truth. Just the truth.”

The anger bottled in Peter’s bones seems to deflate just like that, and the kid closes his eyes for a second, nodding slowly.

“Come here,” Tony holds his arms out, standing from the bed. “Come on, come on, give me a hug.”

Peter hesitates for a split second, before he gives in and melts into Tony’s embrace, tucking his head under his chin. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s alright. So am I,” Tony rubs a hand down his back—and suddenly has a splendid idea.

“You still want air, right?”

* * *

The private promenade deck is perfect.

It’s decorated in half-timber Tudor panelling, wicker deck chairs, sofas, tables and potted plants. The windows are vertical upwards and made of teak, abled with the ability to open and close.

It’s a deck reserved for those travelling in the parlour suites—each of those passengers get their own personal promenade, where it’s secluded on each side of the vessel.

The deck is a fifty foot walkway with walls on all sides, enclosed—it’s entrance that of doubled pocket doors and a single one from the suite. It’s quiet, airy, and just right for this occasion.

“You could've just—”

“—told you before, I know, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly not,” Peter replies, smirking to show he’s just being playful. He wanders around, uplifted tremendously by the fresh space. 

“It’s nice in here, huh?” Tony says, sitting himself on a sofa. Peter occupies himself by peeking out of the windows, visibly calmed.

“Really nice,” he hums, gazing into where the sky seems to have brightened just a whit. “I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

“Forget that,” Tony shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I was getting much rest, either.”

“Long day?”

“You wouldn’t believe.”

Peter chuckles at that, abandoning his spot to sit next to Tony on the sofa, curling up with his feet tucked under him. “That was scary.”

“Which part?” Tony asks, partly a joke, partly prodding for more answers.

“All of it,” Peter sighs, pulling his knees to his chest again. He does this a lot. “All the way from the morning to night. What a shitty day.”

“What happened?” Tony’s not sure if it’s okay to ask.

It seems to be, because Peter just sighs again, Tony’s morning coat wrapped around him. “I woke up really early, and I went out into the corridor to—I don’t know, actually. Air, I guess? Anyway, one of the stewards caught me—word had gotten around I was missing and stuff. Got dragged down to the boiler rooms, and I got hurt—it’s okay, though, don’t worry—”

“I’m going to murder him.”

“No—Mr. Stark, you can’t do that—”

“I’m _literally_ going to blow his brains out.”

Peter does laugh at that, which is a victory, and a little relief over his dreadful tale of the day.

“He just hit me and gave me a punishment,” Peter shrugs, coping with it easier, now he’s with Tony again. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Kid, he sent you up there to die,” Tony tries to keep his voice level. It’s still five forty-six in the morning, thick walls or not. “Whatever fucked up punishment that was—it’s not allowed. There’s a reason he gave it to you himself, and not a higher-ranked officer. Hear what I’m saying?”

“I don’t think he wanted me to die,” Peter says, completely missing the point. “He’s just cruel and angry. I don’t think he’s like . . . a murderer.”

“Peter, he wanted you dead. Those lookouts are only up there two hours at a time because it’s not safe in the cold,” Tony insists, noticing how Peter has shifted closer to him. “So how do you think he thought it would play out when a little kid was sent up there all night? Not a hope, Pete, and he knew it.”

“I’m not a little kid,” is Peter’s only response to that, and Tony inhales in frustration.

“Not the point, bud. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” Peter juts out his lower lip, in a sort of pout. “I hear you. Loud and clear.”

“I’m gonna have a word with the captain tomorrow,” Tony tells him, crossing his arms. The sky is now more a navy blue rather than black. “That isn’t right, Peter. Something strange is going on and I don’t like it.”

“Like what else?” Peter asks, copping immediately and sitting up straighter. “Is there something else?”

“I thought—no, it’s silly. It’s stupid, seriously. Don’t roll your eyes, it is!”

“C’mon, what were you gonna say?” Peter can’t hide his smirk.

“I just—ugh, I just thought someone was pooching around my suite, that’s all. Something seemed off earlier in the day. Probably a steward. They’re always just strolling around.”

“If it seemed off, it was off,” Peter frowns, looking at him. “If there’s anything I’ve learnt by living on the streets, Mr. Stark—always trust your instinct, no matter how silly or paranoid they might seem.”

Trying to ignore that painful reminder of Peter’s previous debut as a homeless kid, Tony frowns with him, because once again, he’s right.

“I just don’t know. I’ll start keeping an eye out for sure. Especially with you—I don’t care what strings I have to pull, I’m not letting you out of my sight until this ship docks in New York.”

“Fine by me, Mr. Stark,” Peter grins, nudging him with his shoulder. “Hey, you know, this is kind of exciting. Like a mystery murder. We’re on a super secret mission.”

“Of course, this is all a game to you,” Tony rolls his own eyes, before he decides to humour him. “Okay, we start tomorrow. We need disguises and notebooks, any suspicious activity we jot it down, got it?”

Peter laughs again, leaning over to rest his head on Tony’s shoulder. “You got it, Mr. Stark. You got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!!


	7. SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new arrangements, wardrobe exploring, and a whole lot of trouble.

The next morning is a relief.

For starters, Tony doesn’t wake up in an empty suite—he wakes up to Peter, kneeling on his bed right next to him and pulling at his arm because he’s _hungry_.

“I usually get breakfast at six am,” he whines, surprisingly well rested and fresh looking. “It’s _nine o clock_ , Mr. Stark. I’m _starving_.”

“Five minutes,” Tony mumbles, turning to stuff his face back into his pillow. There’s a sigh, and then the bed dips as Peter climbs off.

Tony can hear the soft padding of feet disappearing into the next room—and it’s blissful silence, for a minute—before there’s a sudden _whack_ of a pillow hitting his face.

“Ow— _Peter_ , get off—” but he can’t help but chuckle in time with Peter’s chimes of laughter. 

It’s . . . delightful, and a little bit lovely, to be woken up this way.

“ _Please_ ,” Peter giggles, smacking the pillow still, down on Tony’s head. “I’m so hungry and I’ve waited as long as I could for you to wake up on your own—but I can’t do it anymore—listen! Listen! My stomachs rumbling louder than the engine’s of this stupid ship.”

Peter’s stomach is in fact, gurgling loudly, waiting to be fed, and that’s enough to get Tony sitting up at last, yawning at the kid’s strange level of energy so early in the morning.

“You could have just gone without me,” he says, stifling another yawn in the span of about thirty seconds. 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna go anywhere on my own. They’d snatch me up and bring me right back down to the boilers,” Peter replies, raising his eyebrows. 

When Tony makes no effort to move, he holds the pillow up, threateningly.

“You can’t get me before I get you first,” Tony grins, evilly, before seizing the pillow behind him to smack Peter right across the face—who falls back helplessly, spread out on the huge bed, laughing at his defeat. “No fair, Mr. Stark!”

“Hey, you didn’t warn me, either. It’s an even trade,” Tony says, hitting him again.

Peter rolls out from under him and stands up on the bed, just short enough that he doesn’t have to crouch beneath the canopy frames. “A war it is!”

“En guard, monsieur! You cannot defeat me!” Tony cries, swiping at Peter's legs with his pillow before jumping out of the bed. “Now come down from there and fight me like a man!”

Peter complies, beaming, hopping off the bed and holding the pillow in a fighting stance, as if this isn’t the most ridiculous thing ever.

 _He’s a kid_ , Tony reprimands himself, as Peter eyes him, stepping around him. _This isn’t ridiculous to him. He’s just playing._

And play they do, for a while, dancing around, waiting for the other to make the first strike. It ends up being Peter, who just charges at Tony with the pillow in front of him and hoping for the best.

He’s not strong enough to tackle Tony to the floor; he’s still rather small, but it’s still a good effort, and the second he pulls back they’re having a full-on pillow war, bashing each other until they’re laughing too hard to even aim directly.

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, in between breaths of laughter. “Come on, come on, get dressed and we can get some grub.”

He clothes Peter in some of his more casual outfits, tortilla-brown trousers, a white blouse and galluses. He’s not bothered about a tie, nor fitting the garments too precisely. He rolls the cuffs of the pants up and calls it a day—it’s too early, Peter’s too hungry, and what does it matter, anyway?

He dresses himself somewhat similarly; tan pants, white waistcoat, striped shirt, and then the two of them finally head for breakfast.

Peter chirps the whole way down to the Café Parisien, in a significantly much better mood than the day before. Which is fair, considering the circumstances.

He has a little spring in his step as he walks beside Tony. He seems plenty happier.

“You’re in a wonderful mood today,” Tony smiles, as they sit in wicker chairs, much like the ones on his promenade deck. Peter grins toothily in response.

The café is pretty and bright, decorated in ivy-covered trellises and some other climbing plants. Beams of sunlight stream in from the windows, giving the room that atmospheric morning glow.

“I’m hoping to get started on the plans we had today,” he tells Peter, after some time, sipping a glass of orange juice. “A few days late, but better that than never. What do you say?”

“You mean, like, inventing?” Peter asks, that hopeful, anticipative look back in his eyes. “You’ll do that? Really?”

“I did say it, didn’t I?” Tony smiles, digging into his poached eggs. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. We start at noon.”

That gets Peter going, and they finish their breakfast in the sun in record time speed.

* * *

Tony has one thing to do before his promise to Peter.

He has the kid running around on the upper decks, where he can keep an eye on him whilst chatting with the captain, who is once again, with his two officials, standing by the walls on the bridge of the decks.

He spent the majority of last night trying to come up with a narrative for his conversation with the captain, and he still has absolutely no idea what to say.

The thing is, he has to be careful. Peter is no saint, guilty of things himself, but Tony must find a sort of roundabout way of coming about the situation that doesn’t fall back on him like a fish to sharks.

There is no way on any kind of Earth that a punishment so severe was suitable for any kind of disruption on this ship; especially by a child, for Christ’s sakes—but he knows none of the staff have taken a shining to Peter whatsoever, and will do anything to push the boundaries of what’s right and what's not.

He flounders around for a while, trying to calculate a reasonable discussion in his brain, a good argument, really. He’s angry and quite frankly pissed off about what happened the night before—there’s no way in hell he’s letting it slide.

At last, he finally gathers enough courage to just start upfront, striding casually over to the captain with a cautious eye still on Peter.

“Captain Smith.”

He turns, a pleasant smile on his face. “Why, Mr. Stark! What can I do for you this morning?”

“Well, Captain,” Tony swallows, staring into his eyes. “I have some important issues to discuss with you, if you will. In private,” he adds, eyeing the officials.

When the captain gives the okay to Henry and William, he and Tony walk further over to the walls overlooking the decks, where Tony can see Peter still playing with some other kids.

“And what must be so important it needs to be brought to my attention?” The captain says, though not unkindly.

“I was wondering,” Tony starts, frowning slightly in thought. “What the situation is for the workers below deck regarding authority in terms of punishment?”

The captain looks slightly taken aback. “In terms of punishment?” And then his face curls into a snarl in realisation. “Is this about that young lad causing ruckus on my ship?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Tony replies, trying not to get distracted by Peter shrieking in the distance. “Something happened last night that I don’t think, under any regulations, should be classified as a punishment—especially for a child.”

“Please, enlighten me,” says the captain. Tony’s not sure if he’s being mocked.

He carries on anyways. “Your Chief engineer sent that ‘young lad’ to spend the night in the crows nest. Now, I know those shifts rotate between a few pairs of lookouts every night because it’s much too cold for them to stay up there for excessive amounts at a time—so I hope we can agree that sending a young boy to _sleep_ up there is far from acceptable.”

“I wasn’t informed of such going ons,” the captain, at least, looks genuinely shocked, eyes narrowed in the newfound knowledge. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty positive,” Tony says, dryly. “I’m presuming those sorts of decisions aren’t made without your blessing?”

“No,” the captain mutters, frowning. “No, they are not. Nor are they permissible. Where were my lookouts?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tony says, honestly. “All I know is that when I went to get that boy last night, I thought he would catch a death of cold, frozen up there like that.”

“I—”and Tony never thought he’d see the day where Captain Smith is lost for words, having enough grace to look embarrassed. “I—I’ll speak with him. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. He will be held accountable, as will my men. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

Tony’s not sure if the captain actually cares enough to bring it up with his crew who were way out of line, or if he’s just humouring Tony in an attempt to please him because, well, he’s Tony Stark. Everyone wants to please him.

“I do have one favour to ask,” he says quickly, as the captain turns to walk away. “Perhaps a recompense for all the trouble?”

The captain laughs at the suggestion. “Why, that's preposterous!”

“Well, in all good conscience captain, your engineers did nearly kill one of your youngest staff.”

The captain looks away at that comment, mortified. 

“What needs it be for your favour?” He asks, after a moment, and Tony clears his throat, cautious of how this might be deciphered.

“Yes, well, I was wondering if I could—this might seem a bit bizarre but I’d prefer no questions—excellent jacket by the way, where did you get it?—Anyway, I’d like to—Christ, how do I word this?—Have the kid just board with me as a passenger for the rest of the journey . . . ?"

For half a second, the captain looks like he might almost laugh at him again, before he squints his eyes in the utmost confusion. “ _What?_ ”

“I’ll pay boarding fees. First-Class ticket. Few days late but what harm can that do?” Tony quips, trying not to wince at the captains face. “Please, no questions. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

“That does not—that’s absurd!” The captain exclaims, clearly not thrilled by the idea. “Why would you—he’s an employee, Mr. Stark. Not a very good one, but one—and now you want him to travel with you, as a passenger, until we dock in New York?”

“. . . Yeah?”

“Ridiculous,” he says, starting to turn away again. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“It’s the least you can do!” Tony shouts after him fiercely, before he can stop himself. “It’s obvious that it’s not safe for him to work down there, with you and all your conspicuous staff branding him as some sort of no-good trouble maker. He’s a good kid, captain. It’s a true shame yourself and the others can’t seem to appreciate that—nearly taking his life in avenge for his misbehavior—as if that’s not what young boys do, as if that’s what a good captain does!”

The captain pauses mid-step, shoulders deflating slightly. He spends a moment to think, before slowly turning back around to face Tony. “You want to pay? For his accommodation?”

“Money won’t be an issue.”

A heavy sigh. “Very well, then. Meet me in my office at six pm.”

* * *

“You said you would take care of the little brat!”

“Yes, sir, I did but—”

“But what? What? What could have possibly gone wrong with my abstractly constructed plan—oh, that’s right, it was executed by an idiot!” 

“I didn’t expect—I didn’t know—I _don’t_ know how—”

“I don’t care what you don’t know! Doesn’t matter now anyways—I’m after hearing an earful from the captain, the stupid kid is still alive and so is that bloody inventor. Our plans are ruined. Ruined!”

“I wouldn’t say _ruined_ now—”

“Oh, shut up, the pair of you.”

Obadiah and Bendell quit their jabbering to turn to Beck.

“Well? What the hell happened?” He says, eyes on Bendell. “Why, or do my eyes deceive myself _and_ Obadiah, did we just see Stark and the kid eating breakfast on this fine morning? Hm?”

“I—I had him,” Bendell says, stressfully. “I had him—he was in the crows nest. He wouldn’t have lasted, Robinson and Evans were on duty but we had them distracted—only another hour or so and he would’ve been taken care of. I don’t know what happened between then and now. Stark came down to the boilers _looking_ for him, but my boiler men were ordered not to spit a word, so I don’t—I don’t know how he found him.”

“Well, he did,” Obadiah growls, turning to look at Frederickson and Charles. “And you two were supposed to keep Stark down dining long enough for us to search for the Sapphire. What happened there? He returned to his suite about forty minutes sooner than expected!”

“We tried, sir,” Frederickson drawls, lighting a cigar, appearing very disinterested. “He was adamant in looking for the child. He didn’t say so, but we knew. Quite the charmer, too. Has his way with the ladies.”

Obadiah slams his fist down on the table. “I’m not concerned about those _activities_!” He shouts, clenching his jaw. “You had _one_ job to do for me and you nearly cost us the entire arrangement!”

“Well, I’m sorry it didn’t work out in the grand scheme of things,” Frederickson continues, visibly unbothered by Obadiah's outburst. “But I did what I was told to do. I kept him down there long enough. Pity you didn’t find the gem, but you had your chance.”

“It can’t be in his suite,” Beck frowns, beside the window of the private deck. “We looked everywhere. Everywhere—he must have it on him, someplace. Or hidden _exceptionally_ well.”

“Stark is smart,” Charles shrugs, next to Frederickson. “A genius. It won’t surprise me if you don’t find it. If I owned such a valuable, I wouldn’t chance where to hide it, either.”

“He must’ve crafted it into something,” Obadiah frowns, still upset. “Something small—easy to hide, hard to find. We won’t stop looking—tonight is the night, anyhow. If we don’t find it before . . . we’ll certainly locate it’s whereabouts when he’s begging for his life.”

Beck holds up a glass of white wine. “To victory!”

All three men raise glasses of their own, and they make a toast.

“To victory!”

* * *

On the fifteenth hour of the fourth day, Tony fulfils his promise to Peter.

It’s three hours later than his initial word, but better late than never, as some say.

They’re in the reading and writing room, in a small seating circle in front of the white marble fireplace separated from the spacious area, next to oeil-de-boeuf windows that are lined with silk pink curtains that look out into the promenade deck, allowing ample sunlight to flood the room.

It’s a cosy space, all delicate plaster work and sleek panelling and fluted columns with armchairs and settees the shades of yellow and blue all around. Potted palms on tall stands occupy the corners of the room, with sconces and beaded crystal chandeliers providing the softest of lighting. A rug and carpet make up the flooring, enhancing the warm, cosy atmosphere. 

“It’s nice in here,” Peter comments, analyzing the room with artful eyes, curled in an armchair with his feet tucked under him. “All quiet. Nobodys here.”

“They come in later,” Tony replies, pulling out two notebooks and fountain pens and giving one of each to Peter. “It’s more of an evening room. At least we have the peace for ourselves.”

Peter hums, thanking him for the items, before his brows furrow. “What did the captain say?”

Tony can’t hide his smile. “You’re pretty much off the hook, kid. I’ll be meeting with him in three hours—to discuss financial debts for your ticket and so and so, but you’re good to go, I suppose. Good news, huh?”

“The best,” Peter breathes, eyes lighting up. “I—thank you, Mr Stark. I don’t know how or—or _why_ this is happening, what I’ve done to deserve this but—thank you.”

Tony shrugs it off, although it is a little endearing. “Hush, Peter, don’t mention it, please. You’ll be staying with me in New York, may as well make the changes now. Don’t you agree?”

“I must be special,” Peter blurts, staring into space. “I must be really, really, special. For you to have picked me.”

“You certainly are,” Tony tells him, because he doesn’t think the kid is fishing for the compliment—not really. Just coming to the conclusion that he does, in fact, stand out from everyone else, and that with a sense of overwhelm. “You really are, Peter.”

Peter beams at that, and Tony smiles warmly back, before he clears his throat and opens his notebook.

“Alright, let’s begin,” he says, turning over a blank page. “What would you like to work on?”

Peter clears his own throat, looking a little nervous—yearning for approval, now. This is the real test.

“Um—I’m not sure,” he suddenly looks nervous. “Stuff at home—I just used scraps and built whatever I could out of it. In the mills they had engine parts everywhere, bits of machinery that they didn’t use. I made my own electric ignition starter once but . . . I don’t know what use that is right now.”

“Talk me through it,” Tony says, resting his head against the high back of the armchair. “Word for word, kid. I want to hear how that brain works.”

“I made this like . . . thermoset plastic, like a synthetic polymer to make engine parts. And I used carbolic acid I stole from the willows house and formaldehyde to mix it together to make it. And since it doesn’t change shape after it’s heated—it just works. I spent a lot of time trying to listen to everyone around me in the factory because, like, no school and stuff.”

Peter trails off a little bit, lost in his own world. His eyes are far away, and Tony gets the feeling he’s someplace else, right now.

“I just . . . did what I could with what I knew. Electromagnetic radiation, electric currents, radio telephony—all those things I love and I want to learn about. Everything else—I don’t know, Mr. Stark. I just take most things apart, figure out how they work, put them back together again. But better.”

“And you—you really said _I_ was the know-it-all?” Tony wonders if his face is as bright as his heart feels. 

“You invented the lightbulb,” Peter says, deadpan. “That’s on like, an entirely different level.”

“Peter, you’re a child, I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, and what about quadruplex telegraphs? Carbon-resistance telephone transmitters? All done pretty young, if I can recall correctly, Mr. Stark.”

“Alright, alright, clever cloggs,” Tony rolls his eyes, fondly. “Anyway, I’m impressed, Pete. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re special. You’ve got a lot in you, kid, and quite frankly you ought to get given the chance to do something with it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to work with you. To really see how far that mind goes.”

“I can’t wait to learn,” Peter says quietly, with a tiny smile. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“Then let's get right to it, shall we?” Tony grins, and that’s that.

* * *

On the eighteenth hour of the fourth day, Tony leaves Peter in his suite to speak with Captain Smith.

“I won’t be long,” he tells him, dressing in more formal attire. He’s doing up his tie as Peter is sprawled on his bed, in a sulk. “Don’t fuss. I’ll be back just before dinner at seven.”

“That’s ages away,” Peter grumbles, hugging Tony’s pillow to his chest. “What am I supposed to do, sit here for an hour?”

“Yes,” Tony says, cocking a brow. “You can sit here in the utmost comfort, in the finest cabin aboard this ship, without complaints, I expect?”

Peter sighs through his nose, blowing away a stray curl. “Yes, Mr. Stark.” He sounds moody.

Tony hasn’t got it in his heart to get bothered about it, finding Peter’s rather mopey behaviour stupidly sweet. It’s very difficult to take him seriously. 

“Hm, that doesn’t sound very convincing.” He strides over to the bed, where his tailcoat is spread across it. As he reaches for it, he places his fingers beneath Peter’s chin, tickling him lightly.

“Chin up,” he says, pulling it on. “You can go to the promenade if you’re terribly bored, seeing as it’s private. I’ve got some books in the sitting room—actually, hang on a minute.”

He leaves the bedroom, crossing through the door straight to the living room, where he picks up a copy of _Peter Pan_ and brings it back in with a grin.

“I’d say this is just your fancy!” He waves it to Peter. “Peter Pan, the boy who doesn’t grow up. Sounds a little bit like you.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Peter grumps, taking the novel nonetheless. “Excellent joke. Care for more?”

“I wasn’t really teasing,” Tony muses, softening. “You’re away with the fairies half the time—not grown up just yet. Hold onto it, Pete. It’s a good thing to have.”

“I’m very grown up,” Peter replies, flicking through the pages.

“You’re very clever,” Tony nods, brushing himself down in front of his mirror. “But that doesn’t mean you’re big yet. You have lots of time for that.”

Peter rolls to the other side of the bed, flat on his stomach, and doesn’t reply.

“Now, I’ll see you later,” Tony says. “Don’t get into too much trouble in my absence, please, or I think I’ll actually have a heart attack.”

“That’s not good,” Peter finally cracks a boyish grin, looking over his shoulder to where Tony is in the doorway. “I need you around.”

“I know,” Tony says, gently. “Won’t be long!”

And then he’s gone.

Peter slumps into the bed, even further. He’s already bored. Is that bad? He's awfully attached—he’s usually terrific at amusing himself, and now it seems such a _task_. A task he absolutely, most definitely, certainly does not want to do.

A part of him wonders if he should’ve asked Tony if he could join in on this meeting, considering it _is_ about him in the first place—but he’d already known his answer, so he hadn’t bothered to ask.

He flops around on Tony’s bed, tossing the copy of _Peter Pan_ onto the floor. He’s not interested in reading right now.

A part of him suddenly wants to explore through Tony’s things, his wardrobe, his boxes, but that is rude, isn't it? Snooping is a bad thing to do, but that certainly hasn’t stopped him before.

But this is Mr. Stark, and Peter doesn’t like upsetting him. 

. . . But what else does he have to do?

Maybe just his clothes. Try some things on. That’s not being nosy, right? He’s worn his clothes plenty of times now anyways. And his wardrobe is so grand, so elegant, with the most expensive designs and fabrics and all sorts of accessories.

And Peter is used to wearing the same shabby shorts every day, so what can he say? It’s exciting, seeing all of Mr. Stark's bits and bobs.

And so, that’s what he does to occupy himself.

For a good forty minutes or so, he roots through the wardrobe, keeping extra care of everything considering the expenses of all the suits and such, and playing with some of the less formal garments, dressing himself up as a mini Tony, from the shirts to the shoes to the bowtie—and he has great fun doing so.

He struts around the room, practicing using all those big words Mr. Stark uses and then laughing at himself afterwards because it just isn't him. He will never be all lavish apparel and upscale tongue and ostentatious mannerisms. Never. 

And after trying the most informalest of Mr. Stark’s clothes on, he comes to one conclusion.

He is not, and never will be, Tony Stark. 

He is however, Peter Parker, and although a little different, just as good.

He doesn’t need to wear luxury and have the people at his feet to be great. He doesn’t need sophistication and splendor and prosperity to be good at what he does. He just needs to be Peter.

So Peter he will be, and Peter he will stay.

As he’s tucking away the remains of Tony’s clothes back into the wardrobe, dressed back in what he’d worn this morning, there’s a knock at the door.

That’s . . . odd.

It’s a steward, perhaps? But they’d come during breakfast, had they not?

Feeling suddenly shy, Peter takes a few cautious steps forward. Mr. Stark hadn’t told him what to do if someone _knocked_. What does he say? Does he even answer?

Knuckles rap the door again, louder this time. Impatient.

 _Shit, shit, okay, I have to answer,_ Peter thinks, paranoia and unease swivelling in his gut. He feels very nervous as he approaches the door.

When he opens it, slowly, he pales.

“B—Bendell?”

And there the Chief engineer stands, with two men beside him Peter doesn’t recognise. They all have one thing in common—anger. And, the first class attire that Peter isn’t sure where Bendell got from.

“Peter,” Bendell sneers, leaning forward much too close. “How nice of you to answer, I was beginning to wonder if you would ignore such fine gentlemen at your door, and that’s rather insulting, isn’t it? Although, not out of the ordinary for an _imp_ like you.”

Well, that’s a lovely greeting.

“Always nice to see you, Bendell,” Peter says, channeling his inner wit for a second. “What do you need?”

All three men laugh mockingly in his face. “Do you hear him?” Bendell jeers, ridiculing. “Lord help us, the child thinks he's one of them. You might have the wear, _Peter_ , but you will never be worthy enough to be a gentleman.”

“What? And you are?” Peter has just enough courage to scoff himself, although his heart is racing tremendously. He grips the door tightly. “You just called me rude for taking a second to answer to you, and yet when I do, I get this thrown in my face. Real classy, Bendell. Super gentlemanly of you. Mhm, for sure.”

Bendell’s expression drops into something dark, then. “Watch the lip, you insufferable tyke. If you do I might make this easier for you.”

“Wh—” but Peter doesn’t get another word in, before he feels a sharp pain on the side of his head, and everything goes black.

* * *

Tony never makes it to the captain's office.

He’s halfway there, strolling through a corridor, thinking of what he’s going to say, how he’s going to say it, what’ll need to be discussed, he’ll probably need to sign a few papers too— 

He feels a harsh _thwack_ on the back of his skull, and he’s out cold.

When he comes to, he's in a room he doesn’t recognise, tied to a chair with his wrists and ankles bound together to prevent any kind of prevail.

He blinks, blearily, looking around. His head hurts like fuck, an agonizing throbbing in the side of his temple as if he’d been shot. The room is narrow, occupied with stacks of berths on top of one another on both sides of the walls. The floor is polished red, rubber marks from the scrapes of the iron beds.

_What in God’s fuck._

Tony’s chair is centred in the cramped space between left and right bunks, the small light from the ceiling shining directly above him, reflecting off the floor brightly. And as far as he's concerned, he’s alone.

“Hello?” He calls out anyways. “Who—what the fuck?”

“Oh, Mr. Stark.”

Tony whips his head around, looking up, down, anywhere he can reach. He can’t navigate the sound of the voice, so he glares at the white door that he supposes leads to the corridor of whatever deck he’s on. He waits until it speaks again.

“Are you comfortable? I’d hope so. What a shame it would be to have it taken away like that, wouldn't it?”

A figure steps in from behind a wooden wardrobe at the end of the berths, appearing right in front of Tony. “But you’re not used to that, are you?”

Tony grits his teeth. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He knows this face. He can’t—what’s the name again? Oh, God, it’s on the tip of his tongue, for fucks sake he _knows_ it— 

“Obadiah Stane. Pleasure to meet you, oh, _wait_. We have.”

Tony wants to spit in his eye sockets. “What the _hell_ is this? Where the fuck am I?”

“Crew cabins,” Obadiah shrugs, as if it’s not obscenely incredulous. “I hope you don’t mind. We had to do this somewhere.”

_We?_

As if on cue, the other one steps out from behind the other wardrobe.

Beck. Quentin, Beck.

It’s ridiculous, and Tony almost laughs maniacally at the dramatics of it all. They look almost comical. And incredibly stupid.

“This is absurd. You’re both hysterical—jokes over. Untie me right now.”

“Funny you say that, Stark,” Obadiah says, stepping toward him. “There really isn’t anything hysterical about this situation, well, other than there’s a restrictive chair in this room and you’re the one sitting on it! Yes, yes, amusing, that is. Tell me, how does it feel to be the one out of power?”

“You have me tied to a chair,” Tony says, bluntly. “You didn’t set my company on fire. I can handle a little petty restraint. So what do you want? Money? Clothes? A kiss?” He puckers his lips at that last one, just to irritate them.

“Don’t be ludicrous,” Obadiah sneers. “Although it does suit you. But, no, we all know what this is about.”

“Uh, can’t say I do,” Tony narrows his eyes. “So, I’ll repeat myself: ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’”

“Don’t play stupid, Stark,” Obadiah says, losing patience. “You know what we’re after.”

Tony is genuinely lost, and annoyed. “No, I don’t actually. But please, enlighten me.”

Obadiah seems to grow even more impatient. “Deal with him,” he says to Beck, before turning away, holding the bridge of his nose in stress.

“The sapphire,” Beck cuts to the chase, and Tony is somewhat thankful the foolish games are done with. “Where is it?”

“Sapphire?” Tony _does_ play stupid, now. “What _sapphire_? Christ.”

“The one you own, idiot,” Beck leans down, right in his face, much too close. His eyes are ugly. “It wasn’t in the parlour, so where is it?”

Tony suddenly remembers Peter’s words.

_“If there’s anything I’ve learnt by living on the streets, Mr. Stark—always trust your instinct, no matter how silly or paranoid they might seem.”_

So someone _had_ been in his room, after all. He was right.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to snoop through someone’s things?” Tony says, growing increasingly bored. “If you’re _that_ desperate, I donate to charity every year.”

“I’d choose your next words very carefully, Stark,” Beck snarls, Obadiah still in serious distress in the corner. “You don’t know what’s at stake here.”

“What, my left eye?” Tony quips, unfazed in the least. He thinks of Peter, up in the suite alone, and falters for a minute. “Or, what? What the hell do you want me to say?”

“Tell us where the sapphire is,” Beck says, grimly. “Your _Padparadscha_ sapphire.”

“I—for what? To look at it?” Tony is exasperated at this point, but still chooses to play along. “Or do you want to lick it? I charge three shillings per lick.”

Suddenly, clearly fed up with Tony’s satire remarks, Obadiah whips around from facing the cabin door with a pistol in his hands. 

That triggers something in Tony’s gut. He swallows, stares at it. Tries to remember they won’t actually do anything. Not when they want something of his.

“You think this is a game?” Obadiah’s voice raises as he presses the cool metal right between Tony’s eyes. “Is this all a joke to you?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, plainly, still thinking of Peter. “All this over a gemstone? All you had to do was _ask_.”

“We don’t do _asking_ ,” Obadiah presses the barrel of the gun sharper into his glabella, threatening. “What we want, we get. Now, I won’t say it again— _where is the sapphire?_ ”

When Tony doesn’t answer them again, Obadiah growls, loudly, throwing the pistol across the room and grabbing Tony’s neck with his hand. “I will kill you, Stark. I will kill you with my bare hands. Won’t that be fun? Won’t it? Oh—I’ll have such joy telling that new little _creature_ of yours—Peter, isn’t it? That is, if the others haven’t already done the job for me.”

That catches Tony’s attention.

“Don’t you dare,” he croaks, Obadiah's fingers slowly squeezing around his throat, cutting off his airways. “Don’t you fucking dare _touch_ that kid.”

“Too late.” Obadiah grins, as Tony starts to choke out ragged breaths—face turning purple. 

“We already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gahh hello my lovely readers !!  
> im so sorry for the delay of this chapter, things have been a bit overwhelming the last while (as im sure they have been for everyone!) and i promise to keep trying to update this weekly.  
> thank u for reading and ill see u soon!!


	8. EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dupes, fools, and escapees.

“Shut up, you wailing little pig. I’m sick of hearing you.”

“But I’m telling the truth! I’m—why won’t you listen to me? I’m not—I’m not supposed to be down here—I—”

“Guess what? Guess what? I. Don’t. Care. Understand?”

Peter hates the way his throat clogs over, thick and slimy with acidic tears on the verge of breaking their dam. “But I’m not—why am I here? I told you Mr Stark is—”

“ _Mr. Stark_ is going to be _dead_ in the next five minutes if you don’t shut your _fucking_ gob,” Bendell near damn roars, the barren and blistering heat of the boiler room wringing their skin dry.

Realising this situation is a lot darker than he’d initially thought, Peter swallows in fear. “D-dead?”

“Yes, you snivelling brat. Dead. D-e-a-d. Can you spell it? Dead! Gone. Poof. Never seen again. So shut your _bloody_ hole and do what you’re told for five damn minutes of your life.”

Peter, promptly, shuts his mouth. There is only one thing processing in his mind.

_Mr. Stark is in danger._

And he’s confused and lost and scared and he has no idea what on Earth is going on.

He’d thought that Mr. Stark was in a meeting with the captain—hadn’t he been? He’d been gone a long time. Where is he? Who is he with? Why do whoever it is want him dead?

“You’re scaring me,” Peter mutters, still refusing to pick up a shovel for the furnaces. “Why dead? Are you just being mean or is he—is he really in danger?”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Bendell is currently looking for someone to ensure Peter stays where he is, with obviously much more important things to do in mind. “I said shut up, didn’t I?”

“Yes but—”

“Then shut up.”

“I can’t!” Peter shouts, suddenly furious, a lightened fire-seed in him that could do with a watering down. “Where is he? Why—who is trying to kill him? Why can’t you just _listen_ to me? Why are you so _horrible_?” 

“You can sob the night away, Peter,” Bendell says, snidely. “I don’t care. I have one job to do and that’s to make sure you stay here and out of everyone's goddamn way, you understand?”

“ _Why_?” Peter persists, eyes on fire and burnt to ash. “Why? What the hell is going on?”

“None of your concern,” Bendell says, purposefully, fully intending to rile Peter up even more. “Now shut your stupid mouth, and get to work.”

“I don’t _work_ for you anymore!” Peter shouts, in irate frustration. “Mr. Stark is gone to the captain to make it official and—” 

“Mr. Stark is doing nothing but pleading for his life.” Bendell is cruel, snatching the cuff of Peter’s collar to haul the kid upright close to his face. “You hear that loud and clear?”

Peter very nearly has half a mind to spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

Bendell raises a hand as if to strike him, but Peter ducks out of reach, turning to bolt down the narrow hall of furnaces, the piercing screeches of the engine and the crushing sound of shovelled coal ringing through his ears.

Begrudgingly, he scowls to himself, picks up a shovel, and sets to work.

None of them are kind to him. Whatever the circumstance or story they’ve been told, they treat Peter with identical disregard, dismissing him almost entirely, only otherwise shouting at him for any reason they can come up with.

(They come up with lots.)

And Peter is bitter. His blood boils as he works, angrier by the second. He wants to scream, kick, punch, anything. He’s so mad he’s almost convinced he could tear a man apart. 

The stokers and trimmers deliberately shove into him any time they pass by, muttering snide comments under their breaths and making a mockery of Peter for simply just existing. He can’t understand why they’re all so _mean_.

Has he really done something so terrible enough to deserve this? Was he always meant to be treated this way? Is he wrongful in everything, bringing all his misfortune upon himself?

He doesn’t know. He wishes he did. He wishes for a lot, these days.

Along the dampers, at every spiral staircase and ladder out of this place, there is someone either guarding it or working directly beside it, preventing Peter from escaping. 

So he’s stuck. He’s well and truly stuck.

And he hates it because—what’s going on? What are they doing with Mr. Stark? Is he okay? Are they hurting him? _Killing_ him?

Oh, god, Peter can’t even think about it.

But then again, he has to think about it, because he has to help.

 _Mr. Stark saved you_ , he reminds himself, chewing at his nails. _He saved you, and now it’s your turn to save him._

But what can he do? It’s him against, like, thirteen men who are twice his size in weight _and_ height. He can’t even compare.

But it’s worth some shot, at least. Isn’t it? Besides, he’s gotten himself out of situations before. He’s small. He can fit. He’s fast, too. If he really, really tries, maybe he has a slip of a chance.

And it’s a slip of chance he’s going to take.

He shovels more coal in, coughing at the smoke. His heart is racing with the adrenaline, eyes searching, darting everywhere for all possible exits. He could take the stairwells, leading up to the next chamber—the engine room.

Once he gets up there, it's free for all. There’s too much to be done for anyone to really pay him much attention. The engineers won’t risk jeopardising the functioning of _Titanic_ to chase after a gangly little boy, will they?

Peter doesn’t think so.

He keeps doing what he’s doing, watching out for any boiler man’s halt of focus on him. He tries his absolute best to appear disinterested, as if he isn’t plotting the most major escape he’s ever made in his life. 

For Mr. Stark. Because he would do it for him.

He waits and waits, not too short to underestimate his timing, but not too long he’s stuck down here for much more than a while. 

And then, as soon as a trimmers back is turned at the iron stairs, Peter sprints.

He doesn’t think he’s ever ran faster—not even when that one time he’d been caught pick-pocketing on the streets of London. But that was yonks ago when his parents had first died. That had been a day.

God, some day.

And even then, he’d thought in that moment too, he’d never run faster, but he’s sure beat that record now, dodging and swerving surprisingly skillfully out of everyone's enraged gripes, avoiding the snatches at him with an expertise he didn’t know he possessed.

“Pardon me, coming through!” He calls cheekily as he bolts down through the ovens, the steam and smoke clouded over enough so much he disappears inside them, as if they swallow him up the further he runs.

It’s hard to catch him, and on top of the chaos of working down here anyhow, Peter thinks it’s almost ridiculous how he’d thought they could keep him down here forever.

He can hear roars behind him, and he knows he’s caused absolute havoc. 

And he really can’t find it in himself to care.

As soon as Peter reaches the stairwell, his wrist is snatched up in a bony, claw-like hand, hot and brittle just like his heart. When he turns to see who’s got him, he’s met with the face of a lad not too much older than himself, with black eyes and a shadowed face and nose that’s a little crooked when you really look closely.

“Wait,” the lad says, eyes pleading. “You have to be careful!”

“Can’t be careful if I’m caught!” Peter shouts, desperately trying to pull away. “Let go, would you?”

“I’m trying to help you!” The boy shouts back, grip tightening. “Shut up and listen!”

And Peter does, quitting his squirming and tugging to give him a chance to explain, still wary of the boiler men after him. “Well? Go on!”

“There’s a door in the engine room that leads to a small room, and through there you’ll get to a Third-Class corridor,” the boy says, urgently. His grasp on Peter’s wrist loosens just slightly when he sees he’s listening. “The door is up the two flights of stairs, right behind the telegraphs and down to the left of the platforms, and up that ladder. There shouldn’t be many in your way, and if there are, they won’t care. That’s just your fastest way out of here, and if any stoker tries to follow you up, they won’t look there. Now, go!”

Peter, struck with sudden gratitude at his kindness, allows his wrist to slip free of the boy's clutch, before he takes both his hands in his own and kisses them. “Thank you,” he murmurs, before turning to run up the staircase.

“Good luck!” The boy calls behind him, and Peter smiles to himself as he’s climbing up, up, up. 

Luck? He won’t need it.

He follows the directions given with clever precision, darting out of any electrician or engineer's way, keeping his head down and ignoring the shrieks of confusion when he rushes up through the stairwells and across the platform, seeing the door with great relief.

He’s getting shouted at, and for fucks sake it feels like he’s causing a scene up here too, but the deafening noise of the reciprocating engines, feed-water heaters and refrigeration plant all make it difficult for more than only a few to give him any trouble.

The boy had been right. He goes almost entirely unnoticed as he hauls himself up the ladder and slips in behind the door, heaving out a wretched breath with his eyes closed the second it’s shut behind him.

The room is small and sort of dark, with another door opposite the one he’d come in from. Once he’s caught up with himself, settled his heartbeat and his head, he walks in through that one too, stepping out onto just what he’d been told: a Third-Class corridor.

It takes Peter a minute to realise he’s on Scotland Road—a lengthy corridor on E-Deck made to help Third-Class passengers and crew members to get from one end of the ship to another. The name had been created by some of the crew themselves, mostly those who’d arrived from Liverpool. 

It’s so quiet. Almost too quiet. It feels as if someone had just put a pillow over his head, muffling and blocking out the tremendous uproar beneath him. He’s almost afraid to move, as if the pillow will be lifted and the sounds will come back rushing through, and he’ll be back in hells quarters doing dirty work for the devil.

But he does. He takes one step forward, and then another, and another, and another one after that, until he’s running, feet working faster than his mind, leading him somewhere he doesn’t have much control over.

He doesn’t even—he doesn’t even know _where_ he’s going. Where is Mr. Stark, anyways? Where are they keeping him? And what on Earth are they doing to him?

And then Peter has to stop and collect his thoughts, because he’s starting to panic and he hates panicking. Once he panics he starts acting irrationally. And that’s no good, either.

He fidgets on the spot, chewing his nails again as he tries to think. Should he check the suite? The First-Class decks? He’s still clad in Mr. Starks clothes—albeit more than a little bit coated in ash and soot. Which is a shame, really. Such a waste of costly garments.

He stays pacing the corridor, occasionally dragging dirty hands through his equally dirty hair. He's restless as he does so, knowing he’s simply spending precious time when Mr. Stark is in serious danger.

Eventually, he gives up on trying to figure out where to go and continues half-walking, half-jogging down Scotland Road, passing the stairway down to the steerage dining saloon as he does so.

The ceiling is low and piped, the flooring planked wooden and the walls painted a fresh white. It’s wide enough, and he doesn’t pass by anyone else during his journey—although he does hear the chatter from the Third-Class diners, loud and exuberant and cheerfully bright.

There’s no sophistication about it, but Peter prefers that much more than the classy, stiff requirements for those in the First-Class decks. Much too tight and proper.

He keeps moving until he reaches an open door that brings him through to the lowest deck of the Grand Staircase, where he knows as soon as he climbs them he’ll reach the C-deck, the B-deck, and so and so. Right where the First-Class passengers are.

But Mr. Stark wouldn’t be there, would he? Not if he’s being kept somewhere in order to be _killed_. Well, that is, if Bendell was telling the truth, and not just trying to wind him up.

And the more Peter thinks that thought, the more he’s stricken with the sudden unnerving idea that maybe this whole thing is really just an elaborate joke. Some sort of revenge for his bad behaviour. 

But does he really want to take that chance? He’d rather be safe than sorry, even if he does turn out to look silly. At the end of the day, he’s doing what he thinks is right. Joke or not.

He finds himself dashing up the Grand Staircases, up and up and up until he’s on B-deck, where Mr. Stark's suite is located down the corridors. 

With the passengers dressed their best and gathered all around, Peter tries his hardest to ignore the dirty looks he receives as he ploughs through the crowds of rich, knowing he looks something uncanny to a rat out of a dumpster. 

It’s never bothered him before, so he doesn’t let it bother him now as he races down to the parlour suite, unsure of what he’s expecting.

Will Mr. Stark be there, waiting for him in anger because he disobeyed and went wandering after he’d been told not to? Will he be in there upset and confused? Or will the suite be empty, with no Mr. Stark at all?

Peter hesitates greatly at the door, hand around the knob with his heart in his throat. _Now or never,_ he supposes.

When he does, at last, gather the courage to swing open the door, he’s greeted with a sight that hadn’t crossed his mind at all.

There are two men scrounging around the parlour, all of Mr. Starks drawers thrown open without care, his things tossed around in arrogance. His wardrobe is open, clothes ruffled and sprawled everywhere, as if someone had thrown them about without thinking twice.

And Peter is—well, he’s horrified.

“What—what are you doing?” He almost shouts, rushing forward on instant to gather up the clothing on the floor. “What are you doing? You can’t be in here!”

The two heads turn sharply at the sound of his voice, almost in sync. Peter suddenly recognises them as the men that had been with Bendell, earlier. They take a second to look at him, then each other, and then back at him again.

“Oh, Peter,” the one beside the door to the lavatory says. “We’ve heard . . . so much about you.”

Peter gets the feeling that’s not a good thing.

“Oh really?” He challenges, much more angry now than afraid. How dare these imbeciles come in here and tear through Mr. Stark's things? “Care to tell?”

“Well, for starters,” the first man says, taking a step closer. His hair is oiled and slicked back with dark grease. “We know you’re not supposed to be in here, hm? Boiler room six I believe is your position in line right now. So, run along back down there and let us do what we need to do, understand?”

“Or, how about,” Peter clenches the fabric of one of Tony’s shirts in his hands. “ _You_ get out of here and go back to where what’s yours. I’m sure you’re grown up enough to know that _stealing_ is for rats. Are you a rat, sir?”

The man scowls, turning to the other one near the writing desk. “We’d best get rid of him, Charles. He’s just getting in the way.”

“Right you are, Frederickson,” this Charles says, glaring at Peter. “You hear that? You’d want to get out of here before we finish you off ourselves, you impudent brat.”

“I’ve heard worse than that,” Peter raises a brow. “And, what, finish me off? Throwing me overboard, huh? Come on, you could at least _try_ to come up with a better threat. That one is weak.”

The first man—Frederickson—sighs, and without warning, pulls out a gun from under his waistcoat. 

That catches Peter off guard. 

“This is weak to you?” Frederickson sneers, aiming it right at Peter’s head. “Trust me, there’s no threat here. I’m making you a _promise_.”

Peter gulps, taking a step back. Okay, now he’s a little bit scared.

“What the hell,” he says, staring between both of them. “What the hell. What the fu—”

He cuts himself off when he catches a glimpse of something shiny in Charles’ hand. “What’s that?”

Charles follows Peter’s eyes and opens his palm, snorting. “A false stone. The bastard set us up. He knew someone would come looking for it eventually. Fuck, Frederickson. I told you that bastard was smart, didn’t I?” 

“We all knew that Charles, for God's sake,” Frederickson rolls his eyes. “He’s not titled a genius for nothing now, is he?”

“Well, we should’ve been more prepared,” Charles narrows his eyes. “He must have it on him, somewhere. We’ll report back to Obadiah and Beck and let them know this asshole planted one and tricked us.”

It’s almost as if they’ve entirely forgotten Peter is there—but those names mentioned rings alarm bells in his head _. Obadiah and Beck_.

He knows those names—they’re the two men that approached him and Mr. Stark two nights ago. He _knew_ something seemed off about them—and he was right, because if Peter has assembled what he’s hearing correctly, it seems as if they’re searching for something from Mr. Stark to steal. A stone, that is.

But, what stone?

Peter doesn’t realise it's silent because the two men are staring at him, with expressions on their faces that makes him very uncomfortable. They look at him as if he knows something they don't—and they’re hungry for it.

“Where is it?!” Charles says, suddenly, almost running forward to grab Peter’s shoulders and shake them roughly. “Come on, you silly child—just tell us! We won’t send you back to the boiler rooms and—Frederickson here won’t shoot your eyeballs out of your head. Just, Christ—tell us where it is!”

“Where _what_ is?” Peter says, exasperated, knowing that no matter what it is he probably doesn't know anyways. 

“The sapphire!” Charles shakes him again, harder. “Go on then, spit it out!”

“What sapphire?” Peter says in irritation, trying to shrug free of Charles' stealthy grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Nonsense,” Frederickson steps forward, too, the gun back tucked under his waistcoat. Peter wonders for a moment how he’d gotten away with boarding with it. “You surely know it’s whereabouts. Tell us. Now. You don’t want to know the consequences if you don’t, trust me on that one.”

“I don’t trust either of you on anything you say,” Peter says, squinting at them, mildly perturbed. “You look stupid, you sound stupid, and wherever this stupid sapphire you’re after is—I don’t know, nor do I care! All I want to know is, where the hell is Mr. Stark?”

“You want to know where Stark is?” Frederickson replies, with a smirk creeping up on his face. Peter doesn't like the look of it.

“Fine. We’ll show you.”

* * *

“For the last time, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You damn well do know! You know where it is!”

“What—” Tony almost has to stifle a yawn. “Makes you think I’d bring the rarest gem in the world on a ship with me? Where anyone can find it?”

“Don’t say such ridiculousness,” Beck leans down. “You have it. We know you do, so you can sit there all day and night and act simple—but it won’t amount to a thing. We’ll strip you _bare_ if we must, so you’re much better off just speaking up, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, you can strip me bare all you want,” Tony grins, revelling in the growl of frustration he receives. “I have no complaints about that one.”

Obadiah, standing with his arms folded and a dark look on his face, peers closer at him. “You—you’re a monster, Stark. What kind of creation—no, I don’t care. Just tell us where the damn gem is or we’ll have your precious Peter killed, you hear?”

“You don’t even know where Peter is,” Tony argues, the purple blotches on his neck from Obadiah's ugly hands prudent and defined under the white lights. “Don’t act all high and mighty as if you’ve got the kid in chains. I know he’s fine.”

He, in fact, does _not_ know that Peter is fine.

“Whatever makes you feel better, Stark,” Obadiah shoves Beck out of the way to grab onto the arms of the chair. Both of them seem to like getting all up close in Tony’s face, not that he can blame them. “But I’ll have you know, Bendell is taking excellent care of him.”

“Fuck off,” Tony grits his teeth at the sound of his name in agitation, jerking against the restraints. “Fuck off out of my face.”

Although he boarded this ship somewhat . . . prepared for a mishap like this (he was bound to get interrogated for owning the rarest gem in the world, he knew that) he hadn’t known it would go something quite like this. Almost out of amusement, he’d toyed with them for a while, opting for a bigger reaction out of them by acting stupid about the entire ordeal—but with Peter on the line, he’s starting to realise that playing games right back might not be the best option.

“It’s in my room,” he says finally, feigning defeat with his head held low. “It’s in my room. You didn't look hard enough, obviously. I didn’t put it in the Pursers safes because I didn’t trust them either. Believe me or not—but this is what you’re getting.”

Obadiah chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, scanning him. “This child must be important to you, Stark,” he says, looking deep in thought.

 _He sure is_ , Tony thinks immediately, almost frightening himself. 

And despite knowing the ‘sapphire’ in his room is merely a dupe, deep down, he has a feeling he’d give the real one up anyways. If that meant saving Peter, he’d pick the kid over a silly gem any day. 

Because Peter is rarer than any jewel, any diamond, any crystal this world has to offer. And he shines far brighter than all of them combined—his brilliant hues of laughter and smiles is forever more vivid than any glittered rays of gold or silver, or any stone worthy of significance. Peter is one of a kind, a treasure amongst shipwrecks.

And he means much more to Tony than a stone ever will.

“Fetch for Charles and Frederickson, will you?” Obadiah says to Beck, eyes gleaming. “Tell them to search through Stark’s parlour again. Where did you say it was, exactly?”

 _I didn’t, idiot._ “Inside the leg of my dresser. I cut out a bit of wood and put it in there. Have fun.”

Obadiah smiles grimly at that, nodding at Beck to get on with it. 

As soon as Beck takes his leave, Obadiah snorts at him. “You’re really that willing on giving up a _Padparadscha_ sapphire all because of a stupid boy? How foolish.”

“Peter has more brain in his left pinky than you have in your entire body,” Tony snaps, sick of the sly insults. “You can call me whatever you want, but don’t you dare call that kid stupid. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“Oh, I'm sure he’s capable of plenty,” Obadiah says, cocking a brow. “You must have a great deal of stories to tell—all those nights spent together in your suite . . .”

“What the fuck,” is all Tony can say at the implication. “What the fuck. He’s fifteen, you sick fuck. He’s—how dare you?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Obadiah sneers again, and Tony wants to hit him so hard. “Don’t act so presumptuous, Stark, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised.”

“Peter is—” Tony starts, disturbed. “Peter is like—” _A son to me._

“Almost as if he’s my own,” he settles. “In no way would I—or should anyone—view him as a . . . partner. He’s just a boy, you disgusting freak.”

“Your anger does nothing but fuel my opinions, Stark,” Obadiah keeps prowling on, clearly enjoying the reactions he’s getting. “Only one would act so pompous to such an accusation if the fact was true—and as you said, I’ll believe what I want, won’t I?”

Tony doesn’t bother giving him the time of day by replying, choosing to stay mute as he turns his head away to face something else, trying to think of an escape option—because this entire ordeal is just so _daft_.

There’s nothing but silence for another long ten minutes, before Beck returns a little red-faced and gaspy, as if he’d been running.

“I just heard back from Bendell,” he says, as soon as he steps inside the door, glaring at Tony. “The boy’s escaped. He’s gone.”

“What?” Obadiah looks appalled. “What do you mean he’s _gone_? Where else could he be? Christ, get them to search this entire ship if they have to! There’s only so many places he can go!”

“Some trimmers went after him, but they couldn’t find him, and have too much to do to really care,” Beck admits. “And, well, it doesn’t matter. Stark coughed up the stone, so why should we care?”

“Because all that child does is _intervene_ ,” Obadiah shuts his eyes, holding a hand to his forehead. “Gets his nose in where nobody wants it. He mustn't know about our plans, do you hear? We don’t want to end up in the basements for the rest of this trip and then the reformatory when we’re docked, do we?”

“No,” Beck nods his head. “No, we don’t. But we can’t keep him hidden forever,” he motions to Tony. “What’s the kid going to do when . . . you know.” He mimes slitting a throat at Tony.

“What, you’re planning on killing me?” Tony says, amused. “Really? I mean, be my guest but, don’t you think that’s a little obvious?”

“What? You think we’ll set you free?” Obadiah says. “After this? Not a chance, Stark. It ends now.”

“I mean,” Tony lifts one shoulder. “You’re much better off just letting me live. I’m sure people will notice I’ve died, and then they’ll investigate. And, I’m not sure about you, but I’m fairly certain by now that you’ve probably done a really shitty job at covering your tracks.”

“Heart attack, inflammation, dropsy, spontaneous combustion,” Obadiah rattles off on his fingers. “All simple ways you could’ve just passed in your bed, Stark.”

“Yes, because I’m sure my body gives off clear evidence of disease,” Tony says, bluntly. 

“By the time they check for that, we’ll be long gone in New York,” Obadiah smirks. “It’ll never trace back to us.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Tony replies, still thinking about Peter.

He thinks about Pepper, and Rhodey, Jarvis, and Happy, who will be waiting for him when they dock. He doesn't really—he doesn’t really particularly want to die. Not that he’s scared, he just doesn’t feel like it. His time isn't up yet. 

He has much more left to do.

It falls silent again, the two men waiting for Frederickson and Charles to—wait.

“Frederickson and Charles,” Tony blurts out, without thinking. “Hang on a second—I had _dinner_ with them last night.”

“You can figure the rest out for yourself,” Beck says, dully.

“Who the fuck else on this ship is trying to kill me?” Tony asks, aghast. “Why is there literally an entire tribe of you out to get me?”

“We want the stone,” Beck shrugs, simply. “Other people want the stone. Other people work under me. And some also want you dead. Easy as pie.”

“Fair enough,” Tony nods. “Yeah.” _Not fair—what the fuck._

Silence again.

 _What the fuck_ , he keeps thinking, fiddling with the restraints. _What the fuck. I have to warn Peter._

He sort of hopes that they’re just pulling his leg, trying to act malicious and villainous and whatnot. But if he dies, who will look after him? And, God forbid, who will keep him from getting in harm's way?

After a while, Obadiah huffs out an impatient sigh, leaving the glory holes in search of Frederickson and Charles, fed up with waiting. It’s left Tony alone with the other goon and honestly, it’s embarrassing how humorous this all is.

He spends the next twenty minutes finding lazy amusement in the situation, something he often finds himself doing when it’s someplace he most certainly shouldn’t laugh. But he can’t stop himself, it’s too easy to pick and poke at how ridiculous this all is. It’s easy to think it’s entertaining.

Well, before he remembers Peter, and how he could be getting hurt somewhere too. He tries to reassure himself in the sense that maybe they _were_ just spewing a load of bullshit to get him to talk, but those thoughts replace any ounce of humour with a vile dread in his stomach. He’s already seen the kid on death's doorstep, seen him beaten and bruised, seen him get ridiculed and torn down, and he just can’t _stand_ the thought of— 

“Well, would you look at what the cat dragged in.”

Tony looks up to see that Obadiah’s returned, standing in the doorway—holding onto none other than Peter himself.

_Oh, fuck._

“Hey, Pete,” he says, chuckling, because he can see the kid’s terrified face. “Bit of a messy situation huh?”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps, as Obadiah’s grasp on his elbow tightens. “Mr. Stark are you—are you okay?”

“Bright as a new penny, kid,” Tony smiles warmly at him, ignoring everyone else in the room. When Obadiah shoves the kid forward, he sees Frederickson and Charles behind him, looking displeased and aggravated.

Oh, well, they mustn’t have found the stone.

“Want to explain this?” Charles glowers at him, holding out his palm. “Do you really think we’re this foolish?”

“Yes,” Tony answers, honestly, extracting a small smile from Peter. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“What, so you hid this inside a piece of carved out wood just to trick someone who went looking?” Charles hurls the false sapphire across the room in a fit of rage. “And you think we wouldn’t notice?”

“Exactly,” Tony says. “You’re really saying it all for me here.”

Obadiah looks seconds away from blowing up the entire ship and everything in it, as does Beck, and Tony’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to expect.

“A word,” Obadiah grits out, in the end, leading the men out of the room.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Peter rushes to Tony’s side, looking like he’s not sure what to do with himself. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“What? Sorry for what?” Tony frowns. “It’s not your fault, kid.”

“I just—I don’t know what’s going on,” Peter says, and Tony can see how overwhelmed he is. “I was—I was waiting for you and then—and then Bendell came to the suite and hit my head and when I woke up I was in the boiler rooms and then I escaped and went to your suite and Frederickson and Charles were in there messing up all your lovely things and I got mad so they brought me down here and I thought you were hurt and—” 

“Pete, Pete, slow down bud,” Tony says, _wishing_ he could hold the kid's hand. “Catch your breath, that’s it, easy. I’m fine, see? I’m alright. Turns out there’s just a few people on board who want my toys. Isn’t that nice?”

“What’s the stone?” Peter asks, after taking a second to calm himself. “What stone do you have that’s so important?”

“A _Padparadscha_ sapphire,” Tony tells him, eyeing the door. “It’s the rarest gemstone in the world. I had a false one in my room entirely for this reason but—I didn’t think it’d actually happen. I made sure me owning such a valuable was kept to secrecy, so I don’t know how they found out. But anyway, that doesn’t matter. I just—kid, can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Peter breathes, nodding quickly. “Anything.”

“Good, okay,” Tony keeps looking towards the door, listening in to all four men still in deep discussion. “Just—quick, kid, I don’t know when they’ll come back in, just unbutton the front of my tailcoat, and then my waistcoat. There’s a hidden pocket I stitched inside it where it is. Stuff it in your shoe or something—I don’t care. Just get it out.”

Peter does as he’s told without debate, looking behind him before nimbly unbuttoning both coats, opening up the black vest to see a small pocket just as Tony had said. He slips two fingers inside to pull the gem out, and when he does, he looks down to see the sapphire is shaped and welded into— 

“A ring,” he says, looking into Tony’s eyes. “An . . . engagement ring.”

And, well, Tony had almost forgotten how quickly the kid cops onto things.

“Yeah,” he sighs, uncharacteristically bashful. “Is it—I mean, what d’you think? Is it—Is it, like, good enough?”

Peter gapes at him. “You’re asking me? You have the rarest sapphire in the world in your hands and you're asking _me_ if it’s good enough?”

Tony shrugs, a hint of a smile on his face. “I have a habit of collecting rare things.”

“It’s incredible, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, earnestly. “She’ll be the luckiest lady in the world.”

“I think I’d be the luckiest man if she says yes,” Tony admits. “When she sails to New York next month you’ll get to meet her. She’s wonderful, Peter. Truly.”

“I don’t—I don’t doubt it, Mr. Stark,” Peter smiles, before tucking the ring into his stockings. 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks him, after a moment.

Peter stares at him. “What? I’m not the one chained to a chair!”

“Or with who knows how many people aboard trying to kill you,” Tony agrees, attempting at a joke.

Typically, Peter misses the intended humour, staring at him. “So they weren’t fibbing? They really want you dead?”

“Something like that,” Tony muses, lightheartedly. “What a night, huh?”

“We need to get you out of here,” Peter mutters, pulling at the chains. “This is barbaric, Mr. Stark. And they say I’m obstreperous! The nerve!”

“That’s a big word,” Tony teases, as Peter walks behind the chair to pull again at the padlock.

“I’m not entirely stupid, you know.” And Tony can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Don’t I know it.”

There’s a little shouting behind the door, and Peter’s hands freeze as the muffled sounds go airly silent. And then, after a split second, the noise rises up again.

“I’m usually good at this stuff,” he murmurs, kneeling down to get a closer look after he’s relaxed. “Peasants do crazy things when they’re hungry.”

“Don’t say that,” Tony chides, wiggling his fingers where Peter can see them. “Don’t say that. That’s not what you are.”

“May as well be,” the kid replies, quieter, as he dips into concentration.

“Not at all,” Tony tells him, although he knows Peter’s barely listening. “It’s not a nice word. Not nice words don’t apply to you.”

“I need a pin of some sort,” Peter says, completely ignoring him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got one hidden away in your waistcoat, too?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Tony replies, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I don’t think that’d work anyways, kid. You can’t do it like that, I need to find a way to angle the chains so I can slip them through my wrists, manipulate it that way.”

Peter keeps tugging. “Sure.”

“I’m serious. Don’t bother. That lock is strong—if it wasn’t so tricky I’d be out by now. I just need you to bare with me, kid. Help me wrangle myself out of this damn mess.”

“Give me your pen,” says Peter suddenly, holding his palm out. “Please.”

“Yeah, hang on, let me just get it for you,” Tony replies with a snort, before jiggling his chained wrists. 

“Oh! Oh, gosh, oh god,” Peters cheeks redden in embarrassment as he straightens to reach for the pen himself. “That was—that was stupid.”

“It’s alright,” Tony has to suppress a laugh. “In my front pocket, kid. Inside my notebook.”

Peter fumbles for a minute as he does so, a dark red blush rounded on his thin cheeks. He’s hot all over—and of course, just like everything else, Tony finds his mortification rather sweet.

When Peter does finally take the fountain pen from where it lay folded inside the inked pages of Tony’s leather book, he wastes no more time and fiddles with the chains once again. He tucks the pen inside the metal clanks, twisting it until they loosen slightly and uplift from Tony’s wrists.

“Quick, quick!” Peter says, pulling it backwards to give Tony more room. “I’ll hold here, just squeeze your hands through.”

With a set jaw and a scrunched up face, Tony does just that, arm muscles tensed and quivering slightly as he wrenches his hands painfully through the chains.

“Almost there!” Peter says, encouraging him. “So close!”

And at last, Tony is sprung free, the chains slithering to the ground in a cluttered heap. He flexes his hands straight away, rolling his wrists and shaking them loose. “Finally, good Lord.”

He undoes his ankles easily enough now that he's mobile with his hands. It takes him about two minutes before he’s unchained entirely, and he’s up and out of the chair just as the dormitory door opens.

“Wh—” Obadiah reaches for his gun.

The others stare incredulously for a minute, before they spring to action, hopping through the door and charging for Peter and Tony—who both, on instant, dart away out of reach like it’s a choreographed dance.

Obadiah starts shouting, in time with Beck, and it’s chaos all over again—but the doorway is empty.

Tony grabs Peter’s small hand, and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <3


	9. NINE

It’s not until they reach the Turkish Baths that Tony slows them down.

Well, _he_ doesn't, it’s more Peter, who almost collapses to his knees as soon as they arrive. Luckily for them it’s unoccupied, but then again that would make sense, considering it _is_ nearing ten o’clock and the baths are closed since six.

He hadn’t believed it until he’d seen the timepiece on the Grand Staircase on the F-deck, next to where the corridor leading to Scotland Road, the baths and steerage dining saloon are held. He’d checked it twice just to be sure—but it really is that late. It’s been hours.

And it’d felt like minutes. 

Peter’s stomach is rumbling loudly as they sit themselves outside the wooden door to the cooling room. The space is narrow, just large enough for Tony to settle in comfortably beside him. Neither of them say much for a moment, Peter panting heavily, throat sickly raw. 

“That was fun,” he says, after about five minutes of trying to swallow down the dryness. His voice sounds raspy. “Sheesh, Mr. Stark. Only four days and look at all the trouble we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

“First of all,” Tony says, holding up a finger. “It was you, not me. I kept out of everyone's way. Secondly, technically it’s not our fault. We keep getting chased after. We’re just too irresistible.”

“I’m adding flavour,” Peter grins, knees pulled to his chest as always. “Don’t lie, I make things _much_ more interesting.”

“Uh, kid, I’d rather be bored than dead,” Tony snorts. “And besides, you’re interesting without all the dramatics. You don’t need to be getting yourself stuck in a web to spice things up.”

“Stuck in a web?” Peter wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah,” Tony says, shrugging. “Like a fly trap. That doesn’t have to happen for you to catch my attention. Or anyone else's. You’re much more exciting on your own.”

“I know that,” Peter says, nonchalantly. “I’m smart.”

“Smart and plenty of other fantastic things,” Tony reminds him. “I liked to talk to you _before_ you told me how that big brain works, remember?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, a little dazedly. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Mr. Stark, but—can we get some food? I’m really hungry.”

Of course. “Yeah, yeah, Pete, we can. I just want to make sure they’re not following us.”

“Well they won’t try anything with everyone else around,” Peter says, rising to a stand. “They barely ran after us, anyways.”

“That’s true,” Tony stands himself, Peter already having started to walk away. “Uh, where are you going? The saloon closed at eight.”

“The restaurant is still open, though?” Peter keeps walking. “Until eleven, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Tony hums in thought, following him thereafter.

He’s a little concerned regarding Peter’s clothing. He’s dressed appropriately, but he’s _covered_ head to toe in ash and soot. His hands and face are blacked with dark powder, and the white shirt isn’t even white anymore.

“Uh, Pete,” Tony hesitates, clearing his throat. “Do you think we could, maybe, I don’t know, get you cleaned up a little, first?”

“Am I too dirty?” Peter stops and turns as he asks, and he suddenly looks so _sad,_ and Tony wonders if it's possible to feel your heart tear only just slightly.

“I just don’t want people staring at you,” he says, softly. “I know that makes you uncomfortable, so it’s best off if we get you changed nice and quick before we grab a bite. Does that sound fair?”

“Sure,” Peter nods, trailing back over to Tony. “Sure, yeah. If that’s what’s best.”

His stomach growls even louder, like a machine gnawing away at his insides. His expression tightens in discomfort, and Tony thinks, _fuck it._

“You know what? Who cares. Come on, it’s late. There’ll be like, ten people in there at most anyhow. Let me just wipe down your face and we can get going.”

And so, Peter holds still as Tony leans down and uses his handkerchief to rub off the dirt on his face, cupping his chin gently to prevent his head moving. Once he does that, he licks his thumb to wipe off the dryer areas stuck around Peters mouth.

“My Ma used to do that.”

_Oh, Peter._

“Really?” Tony keeps gentle. Swiping his thumb across to flick off the ash, he waits until he gets a small nod before he says more. “What was she like?”

“She was—” Peter waits until Tony wipes across his mouth with the hanky again. “She was pretty. She was really pretty and she always was smiling. Her eyes were dark like mine but that was the only dark thing about her. Everything else was so bright—brighter than the sun or even the moon. Even when she was crying she was bright. Her tears could light up millions of skies, probably. But she never really cried when she was sad. She always cried when she was happy. She even cried happy when she was dying. And that’s how I remember her and how I’ll remember her always, I think. Even when the whole world turned mean and ugly she never stopped being happy. She wouldn’t let it win. Not for a single second.”

Peter’s voice cracks only a little bit at the end, eyes glassy and unfocused as he’s taken back to a time before. 

“She was beautiful, Mr. Stark,” he whispers. “Really, really beautiful.”

“I’m sure she was, Peter,” Tony tucks a matted curl behind his ear. “And I’m sure she was so proud of the young man you’re growing into. She’d be so proud of you now, kid. How far you’ve come. How good you are—and what good you bring into this world.”

Peter laughs through the slither of silver tears trickling down his face. “I hope so, Mr. Stark. I really hope so.”

Tony wipes them away with the pad of his thumb, creating a small streaked stain from the leftover soot there. “I promise you, Peter. She’s looking down on you right now with the proudest Ma smile. And your Pa too.”

Peter looks at him for a moment, chin wobbling with his lower lip between his teeth, before he steps forward and wraps his arms around Tony’s middle in a hug.

Tony, a little startled, quickly recovers and reciprocates immediately, resting his chin on Peter’s head as he hugs him back just as tight.

He rubs a hand up and down the kids back soothingly, waiting until he pulls away first.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles, scrubbing at his eyes. “It’s just nice to hear that.”

“Don’t apologise,” Tony tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? I think so. Now, come along, young buck. There’s food out there waiting to get all mushed up inside that stomach of yours.”

And so, they scurry along up to the B-deck, where the _À la Carte Restaurant_ is just around the corner of the Grand Staircase. They waste no time in settling themselves ironically at the same table for two in the corner. And, Tony had been correct. There’s no more than six people dining right now, and most have nothing but glasses of wine before them, finished thoroughly with their meals.

“We’ll have to be quick, Pete,” Tony says as soon as they’re seated. “Just order, eat, and we can go. We’ll be stopping by the Enquiry office to pick up a key for the suite. I don’t want any other company tonight.”

“Gotcha,” Peter says, downing a glass of water.

They chit-chat mildly over the course of their meals, Peter still vaguely worked up over the evenings events. Not that Tony can blame him—he’s a little on edge himself. He keeps a wary eye out for any unwanted intrusion, but for the most part, himself and Peter are luckily left alone.

Peter eats his weight in food—Horseradish cream Turkey, egg plants, boiled potatoes, brussel sprouts and smoked sardines, with some apple meringue and French ice cream to finish it off. 

Tony eats big too, spiced beef and potted shrimps and corned ox tongue. He opts for pudding Royale and petit fours for his own dessert, and he wolfs that down too, only realising how hungry he’d been as soon as his meals had been placed beneath his nose.

Tony had sort of expected a stare or two guided Peter’s way, but most to his surprise are aimed at him, accompanied by several whispers and head turns. He frowns, wondering what they’re talking about.

Well, him obviously, it seems—but _what_ they’re saying has him intrigued. 

Peter barely seems to notice the crude glances, oblivious as he finishes off the rest of his ice cream. A favourite of his, Tony’s noticed. 

They’re left uninterrupted until a gentleman who looks to be in his early thirties crosses the restaurant to stand before them.

Tony, with a sense of déjà vu and all too aware of what had happened the last time they’d been approached in a manner like this, finds his foot hooked with Peter’s ankle beneath the table. “Yes?”

“My sincerest apologies if I do interrupt, Mr. Stark,” the man says, fiddling with his cuff link. “But I was just wondering if you’d received the invite sent to your suite, regarding our dinner party we were hosting for the captain?”

It’s then that Tony finally recognises the man. “. . . George Widener,” he greets, nodding, faintly remembering his face during the dining of the previous night. “And I’m afraid I hadn’t—no. I was . . . preoccupied elsewhere for this evening, unfortunately.”

“Of course, sir,” Widener says, without a taste of disapproval. “It’s just—well, you see, the captain was looking for you and I can’t say what for because he didn’t mention but—”

“Oh, shit,” Tony says, turning to look at Peter. “Oh, shit. Shit.”

“Shit,” Peter repeats, giggling.

“No, no, shit, Peter, oh no,” Tony rises from his seat, almost knocking over a glass of wine as he hastily motions for Peter to do the same. “Up, up, come on, we need to go.”

“What?” Peter has his spoon halfway to his mouth when Tony pulls at his arm. “Wh—Mr. Stark! I wasn’t finished!” 

“There’s no time for ice cream, you can have more tomorrow. For breakfast, luncheon, dinner—I don’t care. Whenever you want just—come on, come on, quick, we have important things to be doing. Thank you, Widener.”

And with that, Tony rushes out of the restaurant, with Peter in tow and a very confused gentleman staring right after them.

* * *

“This is silly,” Peter says, as he’s practically dragged by Tony towards the captains quarters. “He’ll be asleep Mr. Stark! It’s already way after eleven!”

“Nonsense, Peter. He’ll be wide awake.”

“Not everyone has a messed up sleeping schedule like you, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Still not fair.”

And despite his previous whining, Peter giggles at that one. “You sound like a child.”

“We all do, sometimes,” Tony says as they reach the boat deck, where the officers quarters are located, connected to the wheelhouse and bridge. Inside contains the captains quarters and the smoke, pilot, navigating and chart rooms.

“See?” Tony gestures to the gathered men through the glass of the wheelhouse. “All the helmsmen and officers are right there. And the captain too, look!”

“It’s still silly,” Peter mumbles, more to himself as he wraps his arms around his body, protecting himself against the cold. “He won’t want to talk about all that now. It’s too late.”

“I’m talking about Obadiah and Beck, Peter,” Tony says, turning to face him. “Not whatever the circumstances will be with you. You’ll be fine. It’s those two maniacs I’m worried about—I don’t want them endangering your safety for the rest of this trip, understand?”

“And what if he doesn’t believe us?” Peter says, rubbing his arms. “Even with you having a dupe in your suite—the whole thing looks fishy. Like a set-up. I don't know, Mr. Stark. I just think it’s better if we like, leave it til morning. Or something.”

It’s then that Tony realises why the kid is so hesitant—he’s exhausted. 

There are heavy, shadowed, deep-set bags under his eyes, his face paled and greyed. He’s blinking drowsily, looking like it’s taking plenty of effort to keep his eyelids open.

“Alright,” Tony sighs, in the end. “Let's just—get the keys and go to bed, yeah?”

“Yes, please,” Peter murmurs, and follows Tony right back off the boat deck.

They detour right back down to the C-deck, where the Enquiry office is on the landing of it right off the Grand Staircase. 

Here, passengers can send and receive wireless telegrams, store or deposit valuables, purchase tickets for the Turkish Baths and other shipboard activities, and request assistance and information, including the purchase of postage stamps and so and so.

There’s also a post box for passengers to drop letters in, and just outside the office there are three queue dividers and a brochure rack.

The thing is, all cabins are routinely left unlocked around the clock. The passengers don’t carry keys, they’re retained by the stewards. It’s their expectations that either those or servants will be on hand to look after their property in their absence. Hence why it’d been so easy for Frederickson and Charles to go snooping as they pleased,but not anymore. Not on Tony’s watch.

A few people are standing around the landing, some are Third-Class passengers, for their cabins are down the corridors of this deck, and some are Second class, as the library for Second class passengers is located here, too.

But, for the most part, the deck is practically empty. Most passengers have more than likely retreated to their cabins. It is late, after all.

Peter slumps slightly against Tony as they stroll up to the shutter windows at the office, waiting for a clerk to assist them. 

Idly, Tony thinks of only four days ago, when he’d first checked in on boarding the _Titanic_. He remembers the clerk, then, and how she’d been irate over Peter’s absence. 

He smiles stupidly at the memory.

“What are you thinking about?” Peter catches on, looking up at him.

“Nothing, nothing,” Tony waves him off. “Just something silly I remembered.”

“Like what?” Peter’s eyes widen in curiosity. 

“Just—back in Southampton, when I’d first boarded. The day I first met you. Or, well, I was _supposed_ to have met you—but you were off being a scallywag getting up to Lord knows what.”

Peter laughs, linking his arm through Tony's. “A great first impression, I think.”

“Wonderful,” Tony hums, letting Peter hug his arm. “I knew you were reliable ever since that moment.”

“I am reliable!” Peter argues half-heartedly, still smiling. “Just in things I care about. Being a bellboy or a shoe shiner isn’t something worth sticking around for. Like, who wants to polish someone's boots all day? Not me. Teaches you nothing.”

“Patience, perhaps,” Tony says, mostly just to humour him. “And how to talk stupid talk.”

“I used to shoeshine back home,” Peter admits, cheek a little smushed into Tony’s bicep. “Mr. Delmar had an old kit that he let me use. With um—dusters, brushes, cloths and a foot rest. And then the polish. I didn’t keep it up for long. Didn’t like it.”

“You never mentioned that one before,” Tony says, jostling his arm to get Peter to meet his eyes. “Where did you do that?”

“On the streets of London,” Peter shrugs. “In times square. I used to get the train there every Monday and Wednesday. It was before my Ma and Pa died. And it was always really busy and all the gentlemen just wanted their shoes shined for work and meetings and blah de blah. Some were friendly, but most wouldn’t even say a word and just throw in a ha’penny in my hat and be on with their day. I stopped because I figured there’s two ways to be in this world: you’re either on the chair with your foot in the footrest, or you’re on the ground, kneeling before the person on the footrest. And I don’t know about you Mr. Stark, but I’d rather be neither.”

“It’s . . . an honest way to make a living,” Tony searches for the pros. “While you’re young, too.”

“For half a crown and spit in my hair in a day's work? It’s not worth it, Mr. Stark. I gave Mr. Delmar back the box because I kept getting into trouble for back-chat. It’s not fair. They’re easier on the littler kids. They got all rough with me because I’m not, like, seven years old.”

“That does sound harsh.” Tony pulls his arm out from where Peter’s are octopused around it to sling it around his neck. “But, hey, it was an experience. Bad or good, they add up to something a lot bigger as you get older. That does teach you something, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t need to get kicked to the curb and treated like the rats in the sewers to know what’s good and bad, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, indignantly. “Anyone can learn a valuable life lesson without being spat on because you don’t have any money.”

“Yeah that’s . . . unnecessary,” Tony murmurs, squeezing the kid's shoulder. “I’m glad you put your foot down and decided to do what you want, Pete. It’s not easy in a world like ours.”

“Trust me, Mr. Stark,” Peter snorts, as soon as a clerk arrives at an open shutter to assist them. “Your world is nothing like mine.”

And, well, Tony can’t argue with that.

“And what can I do for you two fine gentlemen?” The clerk says, smiling kindly at Tony and Peter. 

“I’d like a key for parlour suite B-56 please, good sir,” Tony says, with a nod. Peter copies his action, morphing his expression into one that of seriousness and nodding firmly.

The clerk looks a little confused. “A key? What for?”

“To lock my suite,” Tony says, simply.

The clerk looks at Tony, then at Peter, then back at Tony. “To prevent disturbance, I presume?”

“Just had a little run-in with some unwanted company this evening,” Tony says, drumming his fingers against the desk. “I’d rather it doesn’t happen again.”

“Right you are, sir,” The clerk nods. “I’ll be a moment.”

And he dips away from the shutters into the office, out of view.

“Why did he look at me like that?” Peter crinkles his face. “Is it because I’m dirty?”

“Uh,” Tony takes in Peter’s wild, shrewd hair and ashed shorts. “Maybe?”

The kid sighs, flicking off soot from his forearm. “At least he didn’t say anything.”

“Believe it or not.” Tony pats his back. “Not everyone in the world is out to get you, kid.”

“Maybe,” Peter murmurs, just as the clerk returns with a master key to the First-Class suites, shiny and bronzed with a metal tag attached to it, with these words engraved on it:

_1st. CL. ST. RMS_

_B.1 TO B.56_

Tony gives it to Peter, who inspects it carefully with heightened interest. “Thank you,” he says, steering the kid away from the office. “Have a good night, sir.”

“And yourself, Mr. Stark!” The clerk calls, before closing the shutters once again.

“Bedtime?” Peter asks, as soon as they’ve started towards the staircase. 

“Not quite,” Tony feels a pang of guilt as he says it, knowing how tired Peter is. “I'd like—I mean, I haven’t seen Esther since last night and—you know, I just want her to know you’re not, you know, dead.”

“Why would she think I’m dead?” Peter’s head snaps up at that, a frown on his face. 

Oh, dear, that’s right.

“Uh,” Tony feels sort of stupid as he guides Peter down a few corridors, and then some. “I might have accidentally panicked and then accidentally panicked some more and went to her for help because I was accidentally panicking over not being able to find you?”

“Um,” Peter stays frowning. “So that just means I’m . . . dead?”

“Look, kid, I couldn’t find you, I went to Esther for her to help me help _you_ , because my accidental panicking led my brain to believe you were in serious danger—don’t look at me like that, you were, weren’t you?—and honestly, I have her to thank. And I think you do, too.”

He keeps going until they get to a stairway down to the steerage hold, or the Third-Class general, where Peter stops him, still processing his words.

“She helped you find me?” He furrows his brows in confusion. “But, how did she know where I was?”

“She didn’t,” Tony shrugs, making his way down the steps. “She knew someone from the boiler rooms so she told me how to get there. I didn’t get shit from anyone—except that one kid on my way out who confessed everything and ratted them out. What a hero. Remind me to thank him too, will you?”

“Wait,” Peter stops him again, just as they reach the bottom of the stairs and into the steerage hold. “Was he tall and really skinny? With a kind of weird nose?”

“Yeah, actually. Yeah,” Tony tilts his head. “How’d you know that?”

“I think the same guy helped me out when I was doing a runner in the boilers,” Peter murmurs, struck with realisation. “He told me where to go where I wouldn’t get caught.”

“Huh,” Tony grins, shaking his head. “Well, whad'ya know. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“I can’t believe that,” Peter beams as they start mingling between the small crowd of passengers, some at the bar, some sitting at the tables, and some sprawled on the back-to-back benches. “He—gosh, I’ll have to see him again when we dock.”

“You can give him a big hug,” Tony teases, scanning around for Esther.

His eyes sweep across the room, searching for a familiar, petite, pinched-faced woman with a rosy smile, and after a few times of double-decking with no sign of her, he turns to Peter.

“Any luck?”

“Nope.”

“Well, shit.”

Assuming she’s turned in for the night, he heaves out a defeated sigh, deciding he’ll just have to come find her in the morning and give her thanks, then. And to inform her that Peter is, very much in fact, alive.

Peter, flopped onto one of the wicker chairs at the tables, rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes in exhaustion. “Can we go to bed now, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah,” Tony holds a hand out. “Yeah, come on, kid. We’ll find her after breakfast tomorrow—and deal with Obadiah and Beck, too.”

But the second Tony hauls Peter to his feet, the both of them nearly lose their footing—for there is a sudden bump, and the room begins to shake.

The beer glasses rattle in terrible tremors on the bartop, the tables and chairs clanking against the floor in clumsy, enhanced vibrations. Everything seems to be quaking uncontrollably, the floor beneath them, the ceiling above them, the walls beside them. It’s so intense the people latch onto one another, and if not that, any object that seems unaffected and secure amidst the forceful jolts all around.

And then, after promptly thirty seven seconds—it stops.

Everyone is silent.

“What the hell was that?” Peter is the first to speak.

A bartender, gripping onto one of the wooden pillars with white knuckles, slowly unwraps his hands from around it. “I don’t know. But I didn't like it.”

Another man speaks up, holding onto the benches. “Sounds like we bumped into somethin’.”

“Shouldn’t be much to worry about,” a red haired, blue-eyed woman adds, brushing down her skirt. “I’d say we all just relax. We’ll be grand. Nothing to worry about, eh? Unsinkable and all that."

There’s a chorus of agreement, and chatter rises up again, the momental quake forgotten.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Peter murmurs, looking up at Tony. “Should we be worried? I’m kind of worried.”

“I’m kind of worried with you kid,” Tony says, regretting it as soon as he sees the crestfallen look on Peter’s face. He should know better than to document his concerns.

“It lasted ages,” Peter says, chewing his lip. “I don’t know, should we go up top and check it out? I just—l don’t want to stay down here.”

“Neither do I,” Tony admits, looking around to everyone already engrossed in conversation as if nothing had happened. “Come on, let's go.”

And so they climb back up the steps and out of the Third-Class general, down the hallways to return the way that they came, neither speaking a word as they do so.

It’s then they come across another problem. The gate leading towards the next corridor containing the door to the Grand Staircase, is locked.

“What?” Peter is instantly frenzied, shaking the gate with as much force as he can. “This can't—this can't be right. Why is it locked? They can’t just keep us down here! What if—what if something’s happened or—or we’re in danger or—or—” 

“Peter,” Tony pulls him back from where he’s jiggling the gate uselessly. “Peter, calm down. Everything’s fine, alright? The officers lock the gates to stop Third-Class passengers getting into First-Class. It’s fine. If something is wrong, they’ll unlock them. We’ll keep looking for another way around, okay? There’s plenty of other ways, I’m sure.”

Peter doesn’t argue, mumbling something inaudible under his breath before he follows Tony down the same corridor, where they take a different turn and end up spiralling down instead of up, ending up on the next deck below. 

“They just blocked off that corridor, right?” Tony says, at the top of a staircase and onto another corridor on D-deck, where the First-Class dining saloon, reception and galley are.

The Third-Class open space is here too, although very much separate and guarded off from First-Class facilities. “They do that. Gates just get closed to keep people in their right places. Don’t start panicking.”

“Kind of hard not to panic when it feels like the ship collided with another one, holy hell,” Peter says, clenching his jaw. “I don’t like this, Mr. Stark.”

“Kid, did I not just say not to panic?” Tony says, tugging him along to find more blocked off corridors as soon as they walk halfway down. “Oh, this is ridiculous. There’s no point going further down.”

“Told you,” Peter mutters, already paled. 

“This is so stupid,” Tony declares, sort of wanting to kick at another gate. “Are they really that scared of a Third-Classer running around somewhere a bit more fancy? Such idiots, Christ.”

“I think Bendell has keys,” Peter says suddenly, almost forgetting that Bendell wants probably both of them practically dead. “I don’t think he’s supposed to have them but he mentioned something about it a few nights ago. I wonder if we could . . . ?”

“I’m really just—not bothered to deal with him or the rest of those clowns,” Tony sighs, crossing his arms. “There has to be another way. I don’t plan on sitting here like a duck all night.”

“Yeah well neither do I!” Peter snaps, frustrated. “And I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas—I don’t want to be stuck down here any longer than you do!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses kid,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “I know you’re freaking out, okay, but just try to chill out for a second? We’re fine. I’d say so if I thought we weren’t. My priority right now is just getting you back up to the suite so you can get some sleep. There has to be a steward strolling around here somewhere that can help us out. Let’s have a look, alright?”

Peter nods stiffly, and doesn’t resist when Tony slips an arm around his shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, against those dark curls. “Just calm down.”

He holds him there, pressed against his side until he feels the kid relax somewhat in his hold. After that he steers them back down the corridor, bumping into a few passengers on the way. 

“See them? None of them are worried a bit,” Tony says, keeping an eye out for anyone dressed in some sort of uniform. “Nothing to worry about, kid, nothing at all.”

But there is, in fact, something to worry about. Something very big, he realises.

Because when they head down a staircase or two, and another one after that, they can’t go any further—there’s nothing there but flooded water, seeping in and making it’s way up, up, up, extracting terrified shouts and calls from the passengers trying to escape.

And an unmistakable horror fills his gut, soaped up in lathered dread. He feels Peter take his hand and grip it tight.

The ship is going to sink.


	10. TEN

“Mr. Stark? What do we do?” Peter swallows thickly amidst the bundles of passengers lifting their skirts and holding their children, running out of their cabins and down the corridors of the G-deck. 

Tony doesn’t answer him for a moment, caught up in the chaos of everyone around them. Peering closer, he suddenly realises why there hadn’t been many stewards roaming around—a lot of them have been hauled down here to the post office, where the postal clerks are trying their best to salvage the mail as best they can.

“Lordy,” he says, looking around. Peter is squeezing his fingers. “Jesus Christ, this is some show. Alright kid, let’s just—go upper deck. This is—fuck, this is a disaster. Let’s go.”

He keeps himself calm and steady, hoping to nurture Peter into the same state of mind. He pulls him along, ignoring the desperate cries from everyone behind him. Peter stays glued to his side, gripping tight as they turn corridor after corridor, searching for more stairs to bring them back up.

“It’s sinking,” Peter gasps, the icy water stinging at his calves. It’s rising quickly. Tony notices straight away. Too quickly. Jesus fuck, what did they hit?

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He says, shoving the kid in front of him as they reach a narrow staircase onto the next deck up. “Come on, come on, up, up, there you go.”

They’re halfway up the steps when Peter freezes. “Wait! Wait! Mr. Stark we have—we have to get Esther and Anne!”

“Pete, there isn’t _time_ ,” Tony urges, trying to coax him forward. “They’ll be fine! We don’t even know what cabins they’re in, they could be above us for all we know, so let’s go, come on!”

“But what if they’re not?” Peter doesn’t budge, eyes saucered and wide. “What if they’re stuck? We have to go get them!”

“Peter, no!” Tony pushes him forwards, less than gently. “Look down, kid! See how fast the waters rising? If we go back down, chances of us making it back up are seriously _damn_ slim. We have to go!”

“I’m not—I’m not going anywhere without at least giving it a try!” Peter cries, and before Tony can grab him, he’s ducked under and raced back down the steps, through the corridor, screeching for their friends. 

“Peter, _no_ —Peter, _Peter_ —fuck— _fuck_ —” Tony scrambles after him in a heartbeat, stumbling behind where the kid is wading through the now knee-length seawater. It’s so cold—it’s so bitterly cold and for a second Tony tries to process the fact that this is _actually happening._

He wants to think it’s a silly nightmare he’ll wake from with Peter laughing merrily in his face—he wants to think it’s a game the kids created out of sheer boredom, a figment of his own imagination, a false reality where he’s not sure what's real and what's not.

But it’s real. The flickering lights are real. Peter sprinting in front of him with dirty nails and a washed up soul and a heart so pure it’s heavy in your hands, is real. The shrieks and petrified commotion and symphonic wails of babies, is real. The slippery water that feels like thousands of blades cutting into your legs without an inch of bloodless mercy, is real.

_This is real._

And it’s _terrifying._

“Peter!” He shouts after him, trudging through the heavy-growing water. “Peter Parker get back here _right now_ —”

He’s scared. For Peter. He’s so scared. 

It’s the same fear he’d feared the night of the crows nest disaster, the same daunting horror carving into the unders of his stomach, the haunts of the what if’s.

“Pete, please!” The water is rising steadier, but the kid has his mind set on one thing and one thing only, splashing through the salt and ice and thick sea so blindly—as if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. And that’s what makes this so dangerous.

He charges after Peter until he latches onto his wrist, where he tugs the kid hard enough to turn and almost stumble into him. “Peter, look at me! Look around you! You can’t play hero, alright? We need to go or we’ll be left trapped down here to die!”

“I can’t leave them behind!” Peter roars, trying to rip away from him. “ _You_ can’t leave them behind! Not after what she’s done to help us!”

“Peter, you have to think smart!” Tony tugs him back again when he turns away. “There’s no use if all four of us wound up dead! Esther isn’t an idiot, I’m sure she’s safe somewhere updeck or we would’ve seen her by now!”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re smart or stupid in terms of luck!” Peter shouts, eyes on fire. “Sometimes life is just a bad hand of cards! Even if you’re the smartest person ever made—sometimes life just doesn’t go the way you want it to! So it doesn’t matter how clever she is, if she’s in danger we can be her little bit of good luck—and isn’t that what counts?”

Peter is panting by the time he’s done, waving his free arm around excessively to emphasise his points. He’s desperate—not for himself, but for others. He’s disregarded himself entirely. 

_Oh, Peter. How could they have ever said you were bad?_

“Okay,” Tony says, a little breathlessly. The water is reaching Peter's waist. He drops the kid's wrist and cups his cheeks with both his hands instead, deciding to hell with the sugarcoating and time for brutal honesty. “Okay, Pete. I need you to listen to me. Look at me, and listen. If we stay down here for much longer, we are going to die. Do you understand? We will die. No New York, no growing up, no waking up to ice cream for breakfast. I know—I _know_ you want to help our friends, believe me, I know—but we need to _go_. I promise you Peter, we would have seen them by now, even if they were on this deck, and if we can’t help them, somebody else will. But it’s no use running around like headless chickens where we don’t know where to look, alright? So please, _please_ —just come with me and I’ll get us out of here.”

Peter hesitates only for a second, before he looks down to the water pooling at his ribcage. His face pales even more in sudden stricken panic, and he glances back up to meet Tony’s eyes with a small nod. 

The rest of the corridors are empty bar them, everyone already having climbed up and out of there as fast as they could. Tony can’t blame them.

They’re practically swimming when they reach the fifth corner of a flooded corridor, the pipes in the ceiling closer to them than the shipwood floorboards. They haul themselves down the longside by latching onto cabin door knobs and such, starting to cough and splutter in attempts to keep above the sea. Tony keeps a firm hold of Peter despite the progressive hardship that occurs when the water seems to flow even faster, like a racing current.

The lights are still flickering with the occasional buzz and crackle, almost in warning that it will soon blow out. And if being stuck at the near bottom of a sinking ship with the water levels rising and rushing faster than one can count to two _isn’t_ scary enough, that in the pitch dark is just . . . no.

Peter seems to telepathically agree, voicing Tony’s thoughts out loud in a wheeze as they reach an open door that leads to a small staircase upwards. “If those lights blow out—we’re as good as dead, Mr. Stark.”

“Hush, Peter,” Tony gasps out, lifting him a bit up onto the steps. The water is almost at his chest, taking them upwards until their heads nearly touch the ceiling. “Quick, quick, up the steps kiddie.”

“Fuck!” Peter howls, as soon as he reaches the top, because before him is a very much so, secured and locked iron gate. He kicks it pathetically, eyes stinging with defeat. “Mr. Stark it’s—we’re stuck!”

Tony tries to shake it with his own hands, but doesn’t prevail. “Shit,” he hisses, watching the water seep up the steps and puddle at his feet. “Shit, shit, shit.”

It’s then, miraculously, they hear footsteps racing around the corner of a corridor behind the gate, above them. 

“Help us!” Peter screeches, at the top of his voice. “Help us please! Please, please, we’re stuck!”

The footsteps stop. They seem to backtrack, almost, until a figure steps out in front of the gate, where another flight of stairs are in front of it. 

And who else, would it be, other than the one and only Chief Engineer: Joseph Bendell.

“Are you fucki—” Tony starts.

“Bendell!” Peter gasps out, looking small and young and desperate. “Please, please, oh gosh, please I know—I know you hate us but—”

Bendell doesn’t even say a word, narrowing his eyes at them, and almost a hint of a smirk plays on his lips. “Well isn’t this just typical?”

“Please don't leave us here to die!” Peter rattles the gates, terrified. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for being disrespectful and mouthy and for being bad and—”

And Tony has to cut him off because he can’t physically listen to him anymore. “Christ, Bendell, have a fucking heart and help us, goddamn it. He’s a kid. He’s just a fucking kid.”

The water is at Peter’s hips, now, and Tony pulls him close. Bendell has an expression on his face that’s difficult to define, as if he can’t choose between his own pride or heart.

When the water reaches past Peter’s waistline and up to his ribs, Tony gives up on pleading, and in a moment of sudden despair and desperacy, finds himself lifting Peter up onto his hip, holding him there tight and rigid in an almost display of how he really is just a child. 

“Please,” he mutters, heart shattering when Peter doesn’t hesitate to wind his arms around his neck. He clings on tight without word, the sounds of the crashing water behind them syncing their sped-up hearts.

Bendell looks like he might just turn around and leave them there—before he grunts out an irritated noise and fumbles with the keys attached to his hip. 

“Hurry! Hurry!” Peter yells, clinging to Tony tighter.

“I’m trying, fuck!” Bendell grunts, before he unhooks the keys and simply tosses them at Tony. “Good luck,” is all he says, bitterly, before he races up the steps.

Tony, with an arm between the bars of the gate, barely manages to close his fingers around them in a near-missed catch, before he flicks through them urgently, the water now risen to their chests. 

“Faster, Mr Stark!” Peter almost tries to climb up further on Tony’s body, in a bizarre attempt to escape the freezing water at his neck. “Shit, it’s so cold!”

“Almost have it Pete, hang on, hang on—” and with that, the lock finally clicks as the gate opens at last, where they both hold their breaths and duck as the water soars above them, swallowing them whole.

Tony surges Peter on forward, who’s unwinded from around him and is propelling himself against the current as best he can. He shoves the kid in front of him to reach the surface faster—which they both do once they’ve swam desperately to the second flight of stairs, resurfacing with choked gasps and sputters of saltwater. 

They gradually climb out of the water with the more steps they take, until they’ve reached a flat, vacant corridor, free of any sea floundering in.

“Alright, alright,” Tony says, grabbing Peter’s elbow as soon as they’re both standing, breathing, soaked and dripping and _freezing_ , fuck. “We need to keep going up, I’ve still got the keys—”

“Mr. Stark—” Peter hacks out, and he looks seconds from bursting into tears. He tugs at Tony’s arm, eyes filled with dread. “Mr. Stark the—the sapphire. It’s—It’s gone. I’m so sorry I—”

A slight sting of pain pierces Tony’s heart for half a second, before he shakes his head and continues to pull Peter along. “Nevermind the sapphire,” he states firmly, rounding another set of narrow stairs that spiral up. “Your life is more important, Pete, got it?”

“I’m still really sorry,” Peter sighs through the sobs clogged in his throat. “I wanted to keep it safe and I just—it just got lost.”

“Peter, I want to keep _you_ safe, not some stone that will probably be worth nothing in fifty years time, alright?” 

Peter opens his mouth as if he’s going to argue, but one look at Tony’s face and he’s backing down without a fight. “Okay.”

“Good. Now let’s keep going.”  
  


* * *

When they do, at last, reach the upper deck (thankfully without any more . . . severe complications) it’s somehow even more chaotic than the disaster below them.

Able seamen and officers and all sorts of ship crew are scattered all about, ensuring immense disarray and madness amongst the prioritised First-Class passengers on deck.

The lifeboats are being swung out from the boat deck onto the A-deck below it to prepare for loading, where they will then be lowered into the sea. Some passengers are gathered around one of the ship's priests, reciting the _Rosary_ prayer. The priest, Thomas Byles, had held the Sunday morning church service only just today.

“Oh Christ, prayers won't help us now,” Tony mutters, at the sight of them. 

“It helps them,” Peter murmurs, squeezing his hand. “It makes them feel better. A little peace in the middle of this disaster, I guess.”

Elsewhere, the orchestra have moved from their original spot in the lounge to perform at the Grand Staircase opening on the boat deck, playing the beautiful hymn of, ‘ _Nearer, My God, to Thee.’_

“I know that song,” Peter states, as Tony leads him around the deck, peering over a railing to watch a lifeboat get launched below them. “I know that song. The matrons in the orphanage used to hum it all the time.”

Tony isn’t sure what response he’s supposed to come up with for that one, but he ends up forgetting anyways, as a rocketed distress call is shot up into the sky. The white rails of light are so bright, they bathe the ship in starry streaks of light momentarily, capturing both their gazes and just for a second, everything seems fine.

And there’s another chorus of shouts and uproar and the distinct sound of a lifeboat hitting the water—and they’re brought back to reality. There’s a faint shout of _‘Come on, lively now, this way, women and children first!’_ and Tony turns to Peter, letting go of his hand to grip his scrawny shoulders.

“Okay, kid, here’s the deal,” he says, right into those dark eyes. “I’m gonna get you into a lifejacket, chuck you into a lifeboat, and everything will be perfect. Got it?”

“What? No!” Peter protests straight away, and Tony would be lying if he said he hadn’t expected that reaction. “I’m not going anywhere without you!”

“Peter, don’t be ridiculous,” Tony slides a hand from his shoulder to cup the side of his neck, and then his jaw. “I’m so serious right now, kid. If there’s any time in the world I really need you to do as I say, it’s now. I mean it, Peter. I’m not arguing with you about this.”

He doesn’t give the kid a chance to reply, before he’s gripping his hand again and leading him all the way back to inside the lounge, where a few stewards are handing out lifejackets to some very distressed passengers. 

“I just need one for the kid,” Tony says, as soon as he’s within ear reach. He motions to Peter. “Just for him. Please.”

He’s handed one without a second glance, with so many people wanting the same thing, there isn’t enough time to dwell, so Tony takes it gratefully and doesn’t hesitate to slip it over Peter’s head. He tightens it without a word, patting it down and then the crown of his hair in hopes of retrieving a smile.

He doesn’t get one. He gets a frown instead, but he ignores that, too.

He hauls Peter along back outside of the lounge onto the A-deck, where they barely make it before he hears the unmistakable clink of a trigger on a gun.

_You have got to be fucking kidding me._

A grunt. “Turn around.”

Peter’s hand stiffens in Tony’s grip as they do so, coming face-to-face, once again, with Obadiah Stane and Quentin Beck.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Tony says, before he can stop himself. 

They’re edging towards the bow of the promenade, where nobody seems to be, considering it’s the end that seems to be going down first. No, the passengers are gathered around the stern, or beside the lifeboats—anywhere up high really. 

There’s too much going on anyways for anyone to see what’s happening here, so Tony merely rolls his eyes and shoves Peter behind him. “Put the gun down, Obadiah. I don’t have what you want.”

“Oh but, I’m sure you do,” Obadiah says, stepping closer, and at this stage, with passengers screaming all around and lifeboat after lifeboat being launched, it’s sickening.

“Shouldn’t you be, like, trying to save yourself?” Tony says, in a tone of voice that suggests they’re both extremely stupid. “What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t try fool us, Stark,” Obadiah sneers. “As if you wouldn’t bring such a valuable with you during a time of tragedy when you have nothing left.”

“Obadiah, I don’t have the stupid sapphire!” Tony shouts in frustration. “ _Christ_ , can’t you back off already? The ship is literally sinking, most of us—me included—are probably going to die, so if you could so kindly just _get lost_ —” and then he remembers Peter, who is standing next to him, staring at him in horror. 

_Nice one, Tony._

“I—I mean—” but theres no coming back from that one.

Obadiah and Beck laugh heartily at that, and it ticks Tony off a lot more than it should. He keeps Peter pressed behind him, glaring right down the barrel of the gun that’s still aimed at his head.

Once their laughter stops, they both turn back to face Tony, or more specifically, what’s behind him.

Obadiah walks closer, until the pistol is only inches away from his forehead. “Move.”

Tony glares at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, move,” Obadiah orders, eyes narrowed dangerously. In the distance, there's a creaking noise and then a faint crashing after that. “Move. I want to see the kid.”

“See, I’m afraid that’s unpermissible—”

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmurs, stepping out from behind him. “It’s okay.”

Tony latches onto him like a leech. “Stay put, Pete. I’m serious.”

“No, no, let him,” Beck moves forward then, to stand directly next to Obadiah. “Come here, Peter. Do as we say. Now.”

When Peter hesitates, looking up at Tony, Obadiah presses the gun right into his forehead, finger on the trigger as a warning.

That sharpens Peter right into obedience, and he swallows before grimly falling into place next to Beck, eyes never leaving Tony’s.

“See? Not so hard,” Obadiah says, before nodding at Beck.

In one swift movement—really, it’s almost as fast as a blink—Beck has Peter in a deathly vice-grip, lifting him up and then tossing him over the side of the ship like he's a sack of potatoes, only holding onto his ankle for support of him not falling to his immediate death.

“Whoa, what the _fuck!_ ” Tony roars, just as Obadiah reaches for him and pulls him into a headlock with the gun pressed against his temple. “What the fuck—you sick _bastards_ —get the fuck off! Let go of him! Let fucking go of him!”

“Oh, I can let go of him just fine,” Beck smirks, from where Peter is shrieking in terror from where he’s hanging, being held by his ankle. “If that’s what you really want.”

“No, no!” Peter screams, and Tony can almost see him thrashing around in full blown panic. “Let me up! Let me up! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Pull him up you son of a bitch!” Tony can’t even properly register the gun at his temple—too wound up over Peter being _dangled_ on the side of the goddamn ship.

“Ah-ah, not until we get what we want!” Beck says, enjoying himself much too much.

“I—”

“I have it!” Comes a cry. “I have it! I have the stupid sapphire just—just _let me up!_ ”

_What?_

Beck and Obadiah exchange perturbed glances, before Obadiah gives a curt nod, and Beck hauls Peter back up onto his feet, where he sways for a moment—before doubling over and hurling everywhere, vomiting close enough to spray it on Becks shoes. It’s almost as if he aimed there deliberately, and Tony can’t resist a small smile.

“You are such _filth_ ,” Beck says in disgust, shaking off his shoes. “Do you see this, Obadiah?”

“I don’t care,” Obadiah says, waiting until Peter’s upright again before tapping the gun on Tony’s face. “Now, Peter, where did you say you had it? Before I shoot this imbecile's brains out, I mean.”

“It’s in my stocking,” Peter gasps, wiping his mouth. He looks a little delirious, stumbling still. “It’s in my sock—I checked the wrong one, Mr. Stark.”

“Your _what?_ ” Obadiah says, aghast. “Your _sock?_ Have you lost the plot?”

“No, no!” Peter rushes to comply, kneeling down to lift up his trousers. He pulls down his right stocking and—there it is. The _Padparadscha_ sapphire, ring and all.

“Is that—why is it so small?” Beck frowns as Peter holds it up in triumph, far away enough that Beck can’t just simply snatch it from him. “Did you—wield it into a ring?”

“Why, yes I did,” Tony says, heart hammering. “Is that a problem? I’d hope not.”

“Not a problem at all,” Beck utters, quickly. He holds out his hand to Peter. “Give it here, kid.”

“Not so fast,” Peter closes his fist around the ring, stepping back, back, back, until he’s next to the railings again. “Release Mr. Stark, or this thing gets dropped into the bottom of the ocean where you’ll never see it again.”

Tony’s heart thumps with love for him. _Yes, Peter!_

To prove his point, Peter extends his arm over the railing, holding the ring teasingly over the sea. 

Beck grits his teeth, impatient. “Now isn’t the time for silly games, you impudent _child_ , give it here!”

Peter stays where he is wordlessly, swinging his arm as he waits.

Eventually, Obadiah heaves out a sigh, unhooking his arm from Tony’s neck and holding his hands up in surrender. “Happy, now?”

“The gun, too,” Peter says, waiting until that’s also dropped to the floor, before he makes any move to hand over the stone. He hesitates last minute, looking over at Tony in search for approval—but Tony already knows what he’s thinking.

He shakes his head at him, before nodding towards Beck. _Just give it to them. Don’t try to make a run for it. Just hand it over._

Peter seems to get the message, because with a heavy sigh and a forlorn look on his face, he passes the sapphire right over to Beck, stepping back to Tony as soon as it’s deposited in his hands.

“This is it, Obadiah!” Beck says, breathlessly. “It’s the true sapphire!”

“Let me look!” Obadiah insists, as Tony starts to slowly pull Peter backwards, until they’re inside the veranda, and through there they step out onto the outskirts of the deck, barrelling through the bustling people on the sideway beside the railings, where the lifeboats are launching.

Peter is silent as they trudge through the harsh crowds, everyone pushing and shoving, trying to get to safety within the boats. He simply trails after Tony, guilt swarming his stomach at the lost stone.

Tony is too busy to notice his downcast, eyes everywhere in search of anyone that looks friendly enough to look after Peter—when he suddenly spots her.

“Esther! Oh my Goodness, Esther!”

She turns around, Anne at her hip, signature shawl at her shoulders. Her face lights up at the sight of him, and Tony understands. A familiar face amongst this horror is more than a little reassuring, for reasons one really could not name. It just is.

“Mr—Tony!” She waves to him, abandoning her spot in some sort of unorganised queue to fall into space next to him. “And Peter, thank Heaven’s you’re alright! Tony was going nuts looking for you.” She adds, with a wink.

Peter, just behind him, brightens tremendously at the sound of her voice, beyond relieved to see her. “Yes, Miss Esther—thank you for helping Mr. Stark find me! And I’m glad you and Anne are—you know, okay.”

“Yes, yes, we’re alright,” she says, with a little sigh, looking around her. “For what it is, I suppose. We felt that horrible bump and heard word from the cabins beside us to get up top deck as quick as possible. And, well, here we are.”

“It’s really nice to see you,” Peter breathes, and she smiles at him, taking a moment to kiss his hands. “It’s lovely to see you both too—despite these circumstances. Oh, is that terrible to say?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Tony soothes, ushering Peter to stand in front of him. “I hope this isn’t terrible of _me_ to say but, could you do me one last favour?”

She looks at him for a moment, and then at Peter, and it all seems to click into place for her.

“I’ll take him,” she says, without an ounce of breath. “I’ll take him with me, it’s alright. He’s safe, Tony. I’ve got him.”

“Thank you, Esther,” Tony murmurs, closing his eyes, and for a seriously odd moment he thinks he might cry.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Esther, that’s really nice of you but—I’m staying with Mr. Stark,” Peter declares, stubbornly. 

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, Peter, I already said so. Look, they’re loading more passengers. Go, go, quick! Get on, I’ll be fine. I promise.”

In saying that, Tony pushes Peter gently away, where Esther wraps her arm around him to coax him back into the shortening queue for lifeboat number eleven. 

But Peter, determined to stay where he is, does his best to pull himself away without causing too much of a fuss. “No, no—I want to stay here. It’s okay, Miss Esther—you get on with your Anne and I’ll—I’ll stay here with Mr. Stark—”

“Peter,” Esther murmurs, close to him, as Tony slips further away, and they get closer to boarding. “All he wants is for you to be safe. I mean it. You’ll only hurt him more by going back. All he cares about right now is you getting off this ship in one piece. He’ll be fine—he’s Tony Stark! You know him! Nothing can get that man—so just relax and come with me, okay? Everything is going to be alright.”

And Peter, overwhelmed and a little caught up in the havoc of it all, almost just falls in with her, seconds from stepping into the lifeboat where she’s freshly seated with Anne on her lap. Almost.

Almost. 

She holds out a hand for him. “Come along, Peter, right next to me, see?”

“Go on, sonny,” an officer encourages him, and he finally does step in, seating himself next to Esther—when he looks up to see two men with their heads down, clearly wanting to be left unrecognisable.

But Peter could tell them from a mile away.

For a blissful second, he allows his mind to wander, wondering how they managed to get on this boat so quick—but it doesn’t last, because they’re about to be lowered down and there is no way Peter is going to sit here with Obadiah and Beck, with Mr. Stark left on board.

And it’s almost a little too much. He can hear the orchestra playing classical music amidst the mayhem, he can hear the passengers shouting and crying and watching as their lives are torn to pieces, he can hear the waves below him, the creaks beside him, the footsteps behind him, the water sloshing as it nearly fully submerges the bow of the _Titanic_ fully beneath it—he can hear the ship falling apart. 

And he can hear Mr. Stark, whispering in his ear, back in a place where it’s so cold and so dark but it didn’t feel that way because there was someone there who felt so warm, so safe, so bright, and it pulled him, sticky and dewy and milk skinned and light, out of that place where everything was out to get him and brought him into a better one—one he never thought he’d see again. 

“I’m sorry,” he stumbles over himself, standing up just before the ropes lower them down. “I’m sorry I—thank you Miss Esther, but I—I can’t do this.”

And with that, he leaps back out of the lifeboat, back onto the deck, where everything is deafening and bedlam and hell—but Mr. Stark is on it, and that makes everything a little bit more _just_. 

“Mr. Stark?” He cries, ignoring Esther’s calls for him to ‘Come back, Peter! Peter, _Peter_ _!_ ’ and continues on rushing through the deck,where everything starts to sway and tilt a little and it all suddenly becomes impossibly a lot more scary.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter screeches until his throat is hoarse and raw, and he knows it’s no use because everyone else is shouting too, and he doesn’t realise he’s crying until he goes to yell again and he can’t—a sob comes out instead.

But he keeps on shouting, running around, jumping on top of anything he can to give him more view, but everything has suddenly increased in terms of panic, because the ship is really going _down_ , and it’s so scary, it’s so fucking scary Peter doesn’t know what to do.

And he—he turns five turns and shoves past people and dives over crates and ducks beneath gentlemen and shouts until he can’t shout anymore with blinded eyes because the tears make everything harder to see— 

“ _Peter?_ Christ, kid, what the hell—” 

And there he is, there he is, everything is okay, everything is better except it’s not because this ship is going to sink and it’s going to sink everyone with it— 

“Mr. Stark!” Peter chokes out, and they’re so far but so close, calling to each other and Tony starts running and so Peter starts running too, and they meet halfway, where Tony wants to throttle Peter but he doesn’t because the kid is melted goo in his arms and he’s crying, why is he crying—he doesn’t have the heart or the strength to be angry for too long because things are _bad_.

And Peter hugs him harder than he’s ever hugged anyone before—not his Ma when she was dying or his Pa when he was sent away or Mr. Delmar when he was promised a new life—not anyone, in his life, he’s hugged harder than he hugs Mr. Stark now, with the lifeboats sailing and the orchestra playing and the people waiting to die.

“Why did you do that?” Tony jolts him, cups his face, and are those tears in his eyes, too? “Why? Why?”

And Peter swallows down a sob and looks at him with those knowing eyes. “Because you’re all I have left.”

“Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand? I had you safe! I had you safe!”

And then Tony’s hugging Peter hard, cradling the back of his curly head and holding him close, so close. 

“I had you safe,” he whispers, brokenly. “I had you _safe_.”

“I’m safe now,” Peter whispers back, closing his eyes.

“I’m safe with you, Mr Stark. I’m safe with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so sorry for the delay in updates!! a lot has been going on in my life, but i hope you all had a lovely christmas and happy new year!!


	11. ELEVEN

Things get worse.

The frenzy and hysteria and almost insane delirium brewed by fear makes it even harder to find stable footing where the ship is almost swallowed by sea.

The passengers are really losing it now, and in comparison to the calm, collected, comfortable manner of only just a few hours ago, it’s nearly remarkable how quickly things have turned to chaos, almost far enough to say downright anarchy, for some.

The lifeboat situation is gradually getting messier as the panic rises, with lowering difficulties with the davits pursuing and people scrambling to get on board. Lifeboat 14 had dropped 4 feet into the sea from it’s falls after it jammed—lifeboat 13 had been pushed aft by the discharging condenser, jamming it on the falls—and lifeboat 13 couldn’t release itself as lifeboat 15 came down on top of it.

And then, shortly after that, Lifeboat 13 had been released and pulled out from underneath Lifeboat 15, as 15 landed in the water. There they’d continued on so, rowing away with Master-At-Arms Bailey shouting orders through the madness.

“This is so stupid!” Peter is shouting as Tony hauls him further up to the stern of the ship, where most passengers are scurrying in realisation that there won't be enough lifeboats for all of them. “People are just jumping on! Why don’t we? By the time we do it’ll be too late and they won’t care enough to pull us back on board!”

“Peter, I’m not risking getting us _shot_ ,” Tony shouts back, referring to the revolver that had been sprung on the men trying to storm the lifeboats just five minutes ago. “Just come with me, we need to stay on board for as long as we can.”

One of the _Titanic’s_ funnels have already collapsed, unable to cope with the strain placed on the guy wires. Those that had jumped off board and are currently stranded in the sea had suffered the midst of it—the crash and explosion into the ocean had been everything but kind.

Basically, everything is just a disaster. A big fucking disaster.

Tony turns his head to a sudden crash behind him, and sees that in some final moments of desperation, Murdoch, Lightoller, Moody,[ Hemming](https://titanic.fandom.com/wiki/Samuel_Hemming), [Edward Brown](https://titanic.fandom.com/wiki/Edward_Brown), [Walter Hurst](https://titanic.fandom.com/wiki/Walter_Hurst), and plenty other crewmen have climbed onto the officers quarters to free some extra boats, pushing Collapsible A off the roof where it slides down a ramp made of oars. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Tony hisses, holding onto Peter like a lifeline. He hurries them upwards until they’ve grasped the railings, watching the divided crowds gather between muster stations or around the stern, like them.

Tony folds himself over Peter, covering his body with his own as they hold their breaths into the frosty air and wait.

It goes to shit after that.

The ship rolls heavily, and almost immediately, with two distinct explosions, the second funnel, with a screech of metal grinding and a flash of soot and flame and coal dust, explodes from its base and is sent hurling into the ocean.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Tony curses, where he’s still pressing Peter into the railings. He’s shaking under him. “It’s alright kid, I got you, I got you.”

They both turn their heads and watch in horror as a massive wave caused by the momentum of the fallen funnel sweeps across the boat deck, over the wheelhouse, bridge wings and collapsibles. By the time it settles, the water has completely submerged the bridge.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, trying to press himself backwards into Tony. “Mr. Stark—”

“I’ve _got you_ , Pete,” Tony presses his cheek against Peter’s head for the slight of a second. “I have you. I have you. We’re gonna be okay.”

He looks down to his watch, where his hand is over Peter’s, wrapped around the railings.

_2:15 A.M._

_Titanic's_ propellers are now entirely out of the water, and the stern starts to rise at a steady pace, going up, up, up. The new angle causes pretty much every moveable object in the ship to crash forward against the bulkheads, and it’s after that she bends in the wrong way, and amidst her gradual implosion there are echoed uproars all around, people screaming and shouting and desperate for safety.

It’s then that the ship breaks in half.

Tony holds Peter as tight as he’s ever held anybody as the ship rights herself for a moment, as if she’s stable from where her stern end is upwards out of the water—and then, with a mighty whipping motion that sends the stern backwards, something gives out and she slowly plunges right back into the sea. 

And just like that, they are corrupted into darkness as her power blows out.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter gasps and it’s so cold, he’s so cold, the smoke from his lungs incomparable with the feathered clouds of steam rising above the chaos.

The bow finally breaks loose, plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. With the stern still descending with the extra weight of the water consuming air pockets, causing more pressure to give out, she slowly starts to upright herself vertically.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, Peter, we’re going to climb over, alright?” Tony doesn’t waste a single second, pulling himself up onto the mast beside them, using it to haul himself over onto the other side of the railings. “Give me your hand, Pete!”

Peter doesn’t hesitate, feeling the ship tip backwards rapidly as he latches onto Tony’s hand, throwing his arms and legs over the side as the _Titanic_ suddenly stops, completely vertical.

Tony folds himself over him once again, as they both stare downwards at the passengers who try to cling on—but can’t, and fall to their deaths. Screams and cries and shouts of terror entail as people fall down, down, down, subsiding into the unknown where they’ll never be seen again.

“I’m scared,” Peter whispers, crouched under Tony. “I’m scared, Mr. Stark.”

“I know you are Peter,” Tony murmurs, as the ship jolts again. He holds him closer. “I know you are, but you just have to trust me.”

With another piercing creak and then another, the ship starts to plummet downwards.

“Okay, this is it, Pete,” Tony shouts over the ocean rising to swallow them whole, the ship seconds from descending to the bottom of the dark nothingness. “Alright, alright, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you just need to take a really deep breath and keep holding on to me, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter gasps out, as they get closer. It’s fast. Everything is too fast.

“On the count of three, you’re going to squeeze my hand and take that breath, okay?”

“Yes—yes!”

“Okay, okay, get ready Peter. Okay one, two, three—now!”

And with that final count, a deep breath, a squeeze of a hand and a heart in his throat, Peter shuts his eyes and plunges into darkness.

* * *

For a second, it’s almost bliss.

It’s quiet. It’s so quiet.

It’s sudden subtled movement and silence of the unknown, and yeah, his head feels like maybe it might explode, and he needs oxygen, he needs oxygen, but for just a moment, there’s just nothing. It’s just him. It’s the deep blue sea and the black underworld and the muffled sounds of tragedy up above.

And Peter feels like he’s floating far, far away.

It’s almost as if he’s amidst the tidal waves of his thoughts, drowning inside his own head because he’d always felt like he was drowning, with saltwater in his lungs he could never get rid of and trapped in a sea of his own sorrow and is this now, is this coming home?

And then, all at once, it’s not.

There’s someone pulling at his hand and tugging him to the surface, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he’s kicking and trying, he’s trying so hard but the salt is inside him and so is the hurt, and the fear and the terror and the overpowering feeling of knowing that he _can’t breathe._

And then he does. Just like that.

He’s gasping and coughing and choking out gurgles of cruel sea, that looked for any pathway it could find to finish him. His eyes are still squeezed shut and his arms are splashing and flailing manically, one of which is being held by something—or someone.

“ _Peter_ ,” and it’s Mr. Stark, it’s Tony, luring him in, pulling him closer. “Peter, Peter, open your eyes I’ve— “ he coughs up water. “— I’ve got you, kid, I’ve got you.”

And the water is _fucking_ cold.

“Ms’r St’rk,” Peter slurs as he splutters out his filled lungs, the paralyzedic shock of the numbing ice stinging all over his body. “Where—what—”

“Don’t let go of me!” Tony calls, starting to swim through flocks of bodies in the same position as them. “Keep hold of me, Pete!”

And so Peter clings on, kicking out his legs with his fingers fisted around Tony’s jacket. 

_Titanic_ 's disintegration during her descent to the seabed has caused several buoyant chunks of debris scattered all around them—wooden doors, furniture, timber beams, paneling and slabs of cork from the bulkheads—in which swimmers are trying to use them desperately in aid of survival.

That seems to be Tony’s set of mind, too, because he leads Peter right over to where there’s an unoccupied, broken away cabin door, floating on it’s lonesome between the hundreds of wailing bodies crying for help.

“Up you get, Pete, there you go,” he urges, shivering insanely. He helps Peter up onto the door, pushing him up until the kid balances himself out, shuffling on his stomach to make room for him. 

“Your t-turn,” Peter insists, adamant despite his quivering body. There’s frost on his lashes and lips and it’s so familiar, so the same as only just two nights ago—Tony hates this world. Hates Peter’s world, because why, why must it be so cruel to him?

He manages to haul himself right next to Peter on the door, where it somehow doesn’t tip over at his added weight (it nearly does.) He settles in close to the kid and slips an arm over his back, both of them resting on their stomachs and staring at one another, trying to ignore the screams around them.

Resting his head on the crook of his free elbow, much like Peter, Tony moves his hand to place it in his icy hair. 

“I-I can’t feel my body,” Peter whispers, eyes so black in contrast to his white skin. “Is this real?”

“Unfortunately,” Tony says, edging a little closer to him. He’s starting to numb everywhere, too. “We’re gonna be okay, Pete. We just—we just have to wait for the boats to come back. Hang on in there. They won’t be long.”

Peter nods, closing his eyes. “Okay, Mr. Stark.”

“You’re gonna be okay.” Tony keeps talking, nudging him with weakened fingers. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. We’re gonna get picked up by a boat, yeah? And then—and then it’s gonna take us somewhere safer, better. And wherever we end up it’ll be okay because I’ve got you and you’ve got me and—and we’ll be okay.”

Peter begrudgingly opens his eyes, flicking off frost on his lashes. “Mr. Stark — I l—”

“Shh, shh,” Tony murmurs. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just keep looking at me. In a few hours we’re going to be far, far away from here, safe and warm and together. And—and tomorrow, you can have whatever you want for breakfast. Anything in the world. And you’ll wake up in a really big bed, so comfortable you won’t want to get out of it. It'll be all sunny outside, the birds singing and all that. And maybe not so warm but it’ll be bright and you—you can run around in the fields I’ve got at home. I’ve got these flower fields behind my house and—what’s your favourite flower, Pete? Do you have one?”

“Sunflowers,” Peter mumbles, teeth chattering madly as he stares at Tony. “Sunflowers are my favourite.”

“That’s great, that’s great we can—we can grow sunflowers,” and Tony’s just spewing a load of bullshit, but he means it, he means every last word. “We can grow them and grow other things too, and you can tinker with all my stuff and build things the world isn’t even prepared for. And we can get pastries on Saturdays and spend the mornings in the markets, and we can play board games by the fire and I’ll—I’ll get you a flute or—fuck it, you could probably make one—” 

“It’ll be wonderful, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, and he’s smiling. His lips are purple and his hair is freckled with specks of white but he’s smiling. “It’ll be really wonderful.”

“I’ll teach you how to play poker,” Tony carries on as the screams quieten. “I’ll take you to a dance with Pepper but I’m sure you’ll make it much more fun, and we can play chess and marbles and go biking down to the river and—”

“Can we get a dog?”

Tony hides his surprise. “I—yes. Of course we can. What kind of dog?”

“I used to have a little black stray,” Peter whispers. “His name was Spudnick. He was sort of everyone's dog in the slums, but he became a friend of mine and he used to just follow me everywhere I went. And then—and then one day, he just stopped showing up. Nobody knew where he went or what happened to him. We just knew he was here one day and then suddenly not. We never saw him again.”

“Poor old Spudnick,” Tony murmurs, and everything is getting harder, the cold is seeping further in, dusting over his bones and grazing across his joints like graters for cheese. “We can get whatever kind of dog you want, Peter. Anything. Anything for you, kid, you just gotta hold on.”

And so hold on they do.

They hold on and frost in layers despite the warm blood in their veins and hot thumps of their heartbeats that are louder than any human cry. And it grows quieter, until it’s a murky silence, body after body shutting off one by one. 

Tony faintly remembers someone shrieking, “For God’s sakes you _bloody_ lifeboats, come back for us! Help us!”

And now it’s deathly still. Body’s sway with the up-down-up-down rocking of the sea. Although a gentle thrum, it’s a little nauseating, and even more so when Tony gathers enough strength to lift and turn his head, where he sees the dead faces of the lifeless bodies bobbing around them. 

He sees a dead man, floating along, he sees a baby in his arms—and he feels sick. 

Huddling closer to Peter, he whispers to him again. “You still—you still with me kid?”

“‘M’ not goin’ anywhere.”

Tony can’t help his relieved sigh, but it comes out in waves and unrhythemised, he’s shaking that badly. “Good, good. That’s right, you’re staying here, with me, while we wait for help.”

“Uh-huh.”

And they wait some more.

Much later, Tony’s not sure really how much later, but later nonetheless, he can hear a very faint calling in the distance. 

It stays faint, and then not-so-faint. It gradually moves closer, and with that a light, too. A torch, specifically, that’s waving around as whoever is shouting calls for survivors.

_Oh, thank fuck._

“Peter,” Tony nudges him, hand practically glued to his head. “Pete, Pete, quick, we need to get their attention.”

For a terrifying moment, Peter doesn't move, until he slowly blinks open his eyes, puffing out raspy breaths. “W-what?”

“Help is here!” Tony presses, trying, with a great deal of effort, to sit himself up onto his knees. His body feels stiff and frozen inside out, rusted and out of use like old clockwork. It takes him a second to slowly maneuver himself until he’s sitting up—especially whilst trying to do so without rocking himself or Peter off the door.

“We’re over here!” He croaks, voice breaking halfway through the sentence. He’s cold, he’s so, so cold. His entire body shakes with tiny tremors that ring right through his neck. “W-we’re—we’re here! Help us!”

The returning lifeboat doesn’t seem to hear them, casting their torch elsewhere, further up from them. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony starts pressing down on Peter’s back, shaking it as roughly as he can without tipping the door over. “Pete, Pete, come on, buddy, I need you up—help me call them over! This is our chance!”

And Peter does finally comply, taking his merry time in hoisting himself backwards onto his knees, exactly like Tony, where he slumps sideways, sticking a frozen face into his neck.

“Help,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again.

“No—no, Peter,” and Tony is beyond desperate at this stage, gripping the side of the door to prevent himself and the kid from both losing their balance. “I-I need you to scream at the top of your voice with me, alright? Alright? Alright—just—”

A deep breath, and then a sudden: “ _Help us!_ ” 

Peter howls like he’s never howled before, his head thrown back as he roars for safety, and his throat is gutted and raw and his cry comes out half-broken like Tony’s, but it’s _loud_ and _there_ and—the torch in the distance pauses in it’s scanning.

“Again,” Tony whispers, and he feels horrible to be the one to force Peter into this position. “A-again, kid. They heard you.”

“ _W_ _e’re over here!_ ” Peter screeches once more, even louder. Tony can tell it’s taking every single inch of this kid’s body to conjure up such robustness. “ _Help us!”_

And it’s a miracle, it’s a miracle—the light lands on them.

Peter throws his hands up, and Tony does the same, waving with as much force as they can. Peter lasts about half a second before he slumps back into Tony’s side. They’re both so bitterly tired, and so, so cold.

It takes around four minutes before the lifeboat reaches them, the light shining brighter and brighter until it’s blinding—directly in front of their faces.

“Oh, Lord have mercy,” the officer holding the torch says. He orders the able seamen rowing the oars to stop, where they had been pushing bodies out of the way on their voyage over to Peter and Tony. “Alright, men! Help pull these two on board and gather up all the blankets we have, right now!”

And it’s a little bit of a blur after that.

The relief almost overrides the fear and the cold and the world splitting in droplets that pour over their heads, and they settle and calm and let some weight lift from their shoulders.

They wrap Peter up as tight as they can, where he snuggles into Tony’s side and slips into a place where everything is much less scary.

And Tony holds his hand and tells him that they’re okay, everything is okay, they’re all going to be okay. 

And as they row through sloshed up bodies and blades of concrete and steel, and all sorts of bits and pieces that are leftover from the _Titanic_ , he starts to believe it himself.

* * *

It’s dawn when they reach safety.

Safety that falls under the ocean liner coming to their rescue: the _Carpathia_.

After almost two hours of waiting—waiting for what, nobody knew—to live? To die?—They are finally encountered with the delightful view of green rockets blasted into the reddening sky, signals that help is nearby.

There are several other lifeboats gathered around, and simultaneously, almost like magic, survivors sober up and corrupt into cheers as the rescue ship sails into view.

“Ah, lads, we’ve made it!” A man from their lifeboat cries in glory, and Tony grins, he grins so hard, shaking Peter from where he has his head pillowed in his lap. 

“Wake up, Pete,” he coaxes, gently, smiling for all the world. “Look who’s come to save us.”

Peter grunts from where he’s half asleep, turning to roll his head and body until his face is pressed into Tony’s stomach.

“No, Pete,” Tony laughs at his antics, partly because it is, like most things about Peter, too sweet; but mostly because there’s such joy pulsating out of him, such relief—he feels like smiling until he can’t smile anymore. Because they are safe. They are safe and they’re going to live to tell this story and so many more after that.

“Upsy-daisy’s,” he smirks, scratching lightly under Peter’s chin. “Come on, bud. You’ll want to see this.”

Peter does take his time in awakening himself, but once he does, scrubbing his eyes and allowing Tony to help sit him up; he marvels.

He stares at the _Carpathia_ with wide eyes and an open mouth, using Tony’s shoulder as a hand-rest as he stands on his knees to get a closer look.

“The sky is really pretty,” he settles on saying, after a moment. And it is. Hues of pinks and oranges and blues and yellows streak across the sky as the sun begins to slowly rise on the horizon, above those briskened bergs, kissed on their heads by golden disc. There really aren’t any words to describe it other than what it is—pretty. Simply pretty.

There are icebergs all around where the ship had to maneuver between; as well as ice floes and other debris. It’s much like being in the middle of a vast white plain of ice, studded with icebergs, large and small. Tony hates the look of them, and judging Peter’s expression when his eyes land on them, he hates them too.

Once they’re closer enough, the lifeboats sort of pooling together, something like out of a regatta, the crew on board the _Carpathia_ begin to lower mooring ropes and ladders, opening boarding chutes at emergency doors to let the passengers climb on.

They’re the third lifeboat out of the current four that are rowed right up to the ship to actually board—and without even an ounce of communication, just a sense of knowing, Peter and Tony both hold back, waiting for everyone else on their lifeboat to board first before they do.

They are permitted immediate assistance as soon as they climb on board, rushed away with the others for a greatly needed hot breakfast in the dining saloon. After that they soon settle on the upper decks, where all the _Titanic_ survivors are setting up almost a camp, sitting down in groups or on chairs all around, huddling in blankets or desperately searching for loved ones.

The stewards and ship's crew do their best to comfort the shaken passengers, some so distraught over the entire experience they can do nothing but cry. It’s tough, it’s so tough, so Peter and Tony take more warm blankets offered to them gratefully and seat themselves in a corner somewhat away from everyone, between crates stacked by the railings.

“How are you feeling?” Tony asks as soon as they’re settled.

They’d been given flasks of scalding tea, in which Peter just holds in his hands more than he drinks it. “I’m . . . fine. I’m fine, yeah. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Peter,” Tony sighs. “That entire thing was a nightmare, Christ. You can tell me if you’re having a hard time.”

“I think,” Peter takes a small sip of his tea, cross-legged with the blanket around his head and shoulders. “I think I’m still just . . . processing everything. I can’t believe—Mr. Stark, our ship just _sank_.”

“I know, kid, I know,” Tony takes a chug out of his own tea, in disbelief himself. “The ‘unsinkable' ship sank. What a joke.”

“That was,” Peter’s eyes bore right into Tony’s. “The scariest night of my entire life.”

“I know,” and Tony takes his hand, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles. “I know it was but—it’s all over now. Sort of. I mean, hoping this ship doesn’t pull the same stunt and sink on us too. That wouldn’t be fun. I’m not sure how many survivor tactics I’ve got tucked up my sleeve.”

Peter glares at him.

“Whoops, okay—sorry, too soon.”

“Way too soon.” Peter agrees, frowning around his flask.

“I’m just, you know,” Tony sighs again, looking around where more survivors are getting aboard the ship. “I’m just glad we’re safe. I know it’s not a good one, but it’s a helluva story to tell.”

“That’s true,” Peter murmurs, hair almost fully dried into his tufty curls. “I’d just rather we kind of get over it first.”

“Sure,” Tony nods, tapping his fingers against his flask. “As do I.”

They fall into a steady silence then, listening to the background noise of people around them on the deck, where the sky continues to brighten broadly. In some ways, it’s far from a joyful occasion. So many people are so devastated, some are relieved beyond relieved, and others are struck with sorrow and grief, the world as they knew it tumbled down on top of them.

“We got lucky,” Peter says, after a while, having tuned in to a few hysterical passengers absolutely beside themselves in distress. “We really got lucky, Mr. Stark. I’m—don’t get mad at me for saying this but—I’m glad I didn’t stay in that lifeboat. In fact, I’m _really_ glad I didn’t. I-I can’t imagine having been . . . separated from you. During all that.”

He sounds almost shy as he says it, looking up at Tony with such dark, honest eyes. 

“I’ll tell you a secret, kiddie,” Tony offers him a smile. “As much as I despise saying it, I’m glad you didn’t too. Only because it turned out good for us, in a really twisted, terrifying way.”

Peter blinks in surprise. “Really? But you were so mad when I came after you.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, kid, because that was your ticket out of that shithole. I don’t think you’re getting it how the only thing I wanted— _want_ —is for you to be safe. Seriously. It’s really the only thing I care about.”

Peter’s eyes widen impossibly bigger. “You really mean that?” He breathes.

Tony looks at him as though he’s asking him something ridiculous—which, really, he is. 

“Yeah? Pete, I thought we went through this stage. I—listen, I know it’s been like, what, four days since we’ve met? Five, maybe? Anyway—I don’t know how it’s started or where it’s come from, but I just—I just have this undeniable feeling to, I don’t know, look after you, I guess. And it’s . . . really strong. Really damn strong.”

“I love you,” Peter blurts.

“And it’s like—wait, what?” Tony stares at him, dumbfounded. Peter’s cheeks redden. 

“Um. I—I already said it. You heard me.”

“Yeah I heard you,” Tony says, fighting back a mean urge to smirk. “Did you just say you _loved_ me?”

“Um,” Peter looks around him, avoiding his gaze. His fingers grip the flask tighter. “Maybe?”

Tony kind of just gazes at him for a minute, unintentionally making him uncomfortable this time. He just looks at the kid, and those eyes and those curls and those little sticky-out ears that listen so tentatively and seem to filter and absorb only the good in the world—he looks at where he’s chewing his bottom lip, a thing he does when he’s nervous and—a part of him kind of really wants to cry.

“Look, Pete,” he says, swallowing down a really embarrassing tear. “I’m like, _really_ bad at all this . . . emotional stuff but—okay, fuck it. You know what? Yeah. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Peter raises an eyebrow to mask his own mortification. 

“I love you too, Peter,” Tony finally confesses, softly. Because it’s the truth, and if there’s anything Tony’s learnt from Peter . . . always tell the damn truth.

Peter looks down, but he can’t hide his smile. Or his cheeks fit to burst with how red they are.

“Um. Should—should we hug, now, or something?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Tony grins, holding out his arms. “Come on, you brat.”

Peter wastes no time, crashing into him with a delightful squeal, throwing his arms around his neck. Tony wraps his own arms around his back just as tight, pulling back only just to place his first, feathery kiss on the kid's forehead.

“Yeah,” he whispers, smoothing back the curls there. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, curling up beside him, in silent understanding, where they watch the sky take on a brand new day, with new promises, new hopes, new life.

Their journey isn’t over yet.

* * *

By 9:00 A.M. all the _Titanic_ survivors are on board of the _Carpathia_.

Peter and Tony had been given a pack of cards by some of the passengers on the ship, where they’ve sat and played continuously for hours, in their own bubble separate from everyone else.

At some point, stewards from the ship had brought up trays of food and drinks for the newer survivors on the deck, handing out bowls of porridge and steaming cups of tea and coffee. At every other arrival of _Titanic_ passengers, Peter keeps a sharp eye out, searching for someone he knows must’ve gotten away to safety. Someone he hopes.

But himself and Tony have spent their early morning playing double canfield, high-low-jack, auction bridge (a little difficult without the bidding box, but they make do)—or just any card game Tony can teach him at the top of his hat.

It passes time by, and enough of it does, until Tony stops dealing Peter’s hand when his eyes land on someone he thought he’d never see again.

He turns to look at Peter with a grin. “Look behind you, Pete.”

Peter furrows his brows just slightly before slowly turning around, eyes scanning everywhere until they land on her. 

“Esther!” He screeches, jumping up in an instant, hearing Tony laugh behind him. He doesn’t hesitate in darting across the deck, careful to avoid passengers on the floor. He doesn’t stop side-stepping through people rushedly until he’s right in front of her; and she opens her arms just as he crashes into them. “Oh, lovely boy!”

“How I’m happy to see you!” Peter says breathlessly, squeezing her neck tightly before pulling away to crouch down to Anne, freckly and blue-eyed, tugging her into a much gentler hug. 

Tony is seconds behind him, drawing Esther into a hug of his own. “It’s good to see you,” he tells her, with a warm smile. 

Esther’s nose is pink, eyes a little glassy and hair tousled and ratted where it’s partially tied up, her right hand clasped around her daughters, but her wonderful smile splayed on her face, bright as always. “Oh, goodness, I do wish I could tell you how lovely it is to see your faces!”

Peter grins back happily. “It’s okay, we know.”

“How are you?” Tony says then, gently guiding Peter out of the way to allow them to step through and down the side of the deck. “I mean, you must be exhausted.”

“A little rattled, maybe,” she says, leaning down to lift Anne onto her hip. “But, it is what it is. We’re here now, are we not?”

Peter realises how much he admires her.

“I guess we are,” Tony says, shaking his head with a smile. “Only you to take this disaster with a grain of salt, Esther.”

“It’ll catch up to me someday,” she says, with a wink. “But today is not that day. Life goes on—as do we. Isn’t that right, Anne?”

The little girl nods, tucking her head into her mother's neck.

“But, it’s been a hard night,” Esther sighs, hoisting her up slightly to sit more comfortably. “A hard, hard night.”

“Don’t we know it,” Tony murmurs in agreement, nudging Peter.

The four of them trail back over across the deck, to Tony’s and Peter’s previous spot. They sit around each other on a blanket spread out on the floor, after both girls have been fed and given warm covers.

“What did you do?” Esther asks Peter, once they’re all comfortable. “After you hopped out of the lifeboat, I mean.”

“Uh,” Peter smiles a little sheepishly, lifting one shoulder. “I kinda just . . . ran around looking for Mr. Stark. After I found him—I don’t know. It’s kind of a blur. Everything just went a little mad and . . . the ship went down and tried to take us with it.”

“You were on board while it sank?” Esther says, in shock. “Goodness me, we were miles away at that point but—good heaven’s, it looked awful.”

“It was,” Peter states, bluntly. “I don’t even—I don’t know how we managed to—”

And then suddenly, he’s taken right back to that moment, cradled by Tony at the top of the ship as it sank, down, down, down into the abyss, ready to swallow them whole and never spit them back out, drowning at the bottom of the deep, deep, sea— 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he mutters, looking down. “I’m sorry, can we just—can we just talk about something else?”

Tony reaches over to give his hand a gentle squeeze.

Esther apologises profusely. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry for upsetting you, darling.”

And Peter lets out a small breath of unbeknownst relief as the conversation shifts over to something lighter. 

He learns then, in that moment, it would take a long time for him to be able to tell this story.

A long, long time.

A good while after that, Anne starts to cry, where Esther excuses both of them to calm her down elsewhere, strolling calmly down the deck to soothe her daughter.

“She’s an amazing lady,” Peter comments, as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Anne will be brilliant when she grows up.”

“She sure will,” Tony agrees, shuffling the deck of cards from where he’d been teaching Esther to play. “Remarkable. Such strength, such poise—such grace, out of that woman. She just takes everything in her stride. How extraordinary.” 

“I’m glad we met them,” Peter says, brushing off his trousers to rise to a stand, where he steps up onto the railings and leans over them—much like back on the _Titanic_ , where he’d first met Tony. “Hey, can you come here, Mr. Stark?

The ship, after having been stilled for hours in waiting for the survivors to be gathered and brought aboard, is finally set sail again, heading towards none other than New York, rather than its original destination in Flume, Austria-Hungary. The SS _Californian_ , a British Leyland Line steamship six hours late to the disaster, had arrived in its place, staying to search for any more survivors whilst the _Carpathia_ headed to America.

Tony does as he’s asked, standing up to grasp the railings next to Peter, watching the sea below them. “Doesn’t look so scary now, does it?”

“I still won’t relax until we dock in New York,” Peter admits, staring down to the ocean. “But anyways, I have something to tell you.”

That catches Tony’s attention. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Do you know the real reason I got off the lifeboat? Other than to chase after you?”

He frowns. “I can’t say I do.”

Peter looks down, where his foot kicks at the railings. “Obadiah and Beck were in that lifeboat.”

“Oh, shit,” Tony looks around, alarmed. “Those bastards are on here?”

“I don’t know!” Peter hushes him, pulling him back to meet his gaze. “That doesn’t matter—the point is—and I forgot about this, I really did—but I was sitting down next to them and I—look. I’ll just show you.”

And so Peter hops off the railing, reaching down into his stockings, where he then stretches out his hand, flattening his palm for Tony to see.

And Tony’s eyes widen.

Because there, glimmering in the sunshine, right beneath his nose, is the _Padparadscha_ sapphire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> good evening and welcome to my fic that hit me like a ton of bricks and kept me up days at a time running off of coffee and red bull and 3 days worn in contact lenses. :D
> 
> here are some notes 4 u to explain more about this disaster i've written that i'm still hoping you'll like for some reason-
> 
> 1\. basically i watched the titanic and was Heavily inspired to write like half of this fic in like four days but anyways u get the gist, inspired by a Good™ movie with some Good™ irondad content yessir
> 
> 2\. the dialogue and shittt is all set back during the edwardian period, i tried to interpret tony's personality as much as i could thru the mannerisms and language of back then, same with peter (if i slipped up and some things are inaccurate, forgive me pls)
> 
> 3\. i do have peter a little out of character for the sake of the plot, so if you're reading and ur like ?????? peter wouldn't say that????? pls bare with me he'll bloom into the little flower angel we know him as he's just been thru some tuff times and diesnt know how 2 cope with anger. thank u.
> 
> 4\. and look lads i dont have a shiting clue about science and i had to research to FUCK about everything and anything in 1912 anyways let alone this technology fuckery so again if ur reading like ????? same. we r in the same boat.
> 
> n' last but not least, enjoy the story :)


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